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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 




CHARLES L. H. WAGNER 



CRADLED 
MOONS 



A BOOK OF POEMS 



CHARLES L. H. WAGNER 



OLD MOONS CRADLED IN THE NEW 

Olden thoughts with lustre bright, 
Gleaned and garnered by the light 
Of the mystic queen of night. 

And each old thought seems to rest 
Snugly in a new one's breast, 
Like an old moon in its nest. 



PUBLISHED BY 
THE MANYCRAFTS SHOP 

249 Washington Street 
BOSTON, MASS. 






Copyright 1919 
CHARLES L. H. WAGNER 



George E. Crosby Co. Printers 
394 Atlantic Ave, Boston 



ICI.A515786 



DEDICATION 

THIS BOOK is dedicated to my Wife, to whom 
I owe much of its inspiration. 

Like the beautiful Ariadne of Greek mythology, 
who, because of her love for Theseus, gave to him 
a clew of thread by which he guided himself from 
out the mysterious paths of the Cretan labyrinths, 
so, indeed, has my good angel often assisted me 
when I have been seemingly helpless in the 
labyrinth of my ideas, and by the simple clew of 
woman's divine, intuitive knowledge, has given me 
the thread which led into the bright sun of progress. 

She it is who has suggested from time to time 
many of the thoughts which I have herein am- 
plified, and to her, more than to any other person, 
I shall be indebted, should my humble work find 
favor with those who peruse its pages. 



ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF INDEBTEDNESS 

I DESIRE to express my sense of indebtedness 
to the many friends whose helpful words of encour- 
agement have inspired me in the xvriting of these 
verses; to my Father and Mother, who, by their 
example and precepts, incidcated in me the ideals 
rvhich permeate this book, I am and shoidd be 
beholden. I trust that they xcill never have cause 
to regret the life which combines many of the 
qualities and traits of each of them. 

The Author. 



CRADLED MOONS 11 



INTRODUCTION 

By William Stanley Braithwaite 

No art is capable, unless it be music, of so many fine 
shades of expressing human feeling and emotion as the 
art of poetry. If music be as various, the results are 
lost relatively tlirough the abstractions whicli are both 
its language and its substance. Poetry in its highest 
sense has the quality of music, it originates from the 
same abstractions, but these abstractions become ma- 
terialized in the imagery that is the language of poetry. 
Poetry, therefore, is more infinite in substance, more 
various in expression than any of the arts practiced by 
man. And while all the arts besides poetry, with the 
possible exception of painting, must deal with themes 
and subjects, that are in themselves exalted, or lend 
themselves, readily, to the evocation of symbols en- 
nobling their effects by wonder and mystery, poetry can 
deal with themes and objects homely in themselves, and 
by the essence of pleasure, which is a large part of its 
function, make those common themes and objects at- 
tractive and distinguished without altering their essen- 
tial aspects as the poet finds them. Tlie degree of 
perfection in which poetry renders the physical and 
spiritual world of the poet's imagination is in trans- 
muting object and emotion into a magic that becomes 
visible through some indefinable utterance. The magic 
may lie beneath the surface of the utterance, or shimmer 
over it like an atmosphere. One meets it in a word, a 
line, or a stanza, rarely in tlie whole body of English 
poetry, an unrippled under-current or an undarkened 
luminosity in an entire single poem. Scott, in his pro- 
lific bodv of work, achieved it in a few lines in the short 



12 CRADLED MOONS 

lyric, "Proud Maisie;" Keats in tliose famous lines in 
the "Ode to a Nightingale"; Coleridge more often than 
any other poet in "Kubla Khan." in several lines in 
"Christabel" ; Webster in one lyrical passage; Shakes- 
peare in a number of lyrics. English poetry is prodigal 
of all the other qualities that make it as an art a delight 
to the emotions and a winged aspiration to the spirit. 
These qualities, embodying many manners of speech, 
many modes of thought and feeling, in which human 
nature in all its conspicuous purposes is given expres- 
sion, are at the core of all earnest and quickened utter- 
ance. The claim to attention tliat the poems in this 
volume put forward is upon the good ground of pos- 
sessing these qualities in an understandable degree. 

Mr. Wagner displays in this volume a very varied 
interest and sympathy. He is a poet to whom one can 
trust oneself with absolute faith. Where so many 
modern poets are devastating faiths and traditions, 
exercising with superfine emotions delicate instincts in 
the attempt to discover the subtle nothingness of dreams 
and passions, he is very sane and wholesome in his grasp 
upon the complexities of common life through "the 
strength of affirming." The kernel of this affirmation 
is contained in tliese lines of his : 

"For in those old thoughts we hut live again, 

And what is life but simply doing o'er 
The old time things with all their joy and pain, 

And modern wisdom is but ancient lore. 
Eternity, when summed up, means but this; 

There is no old, there is no new, and youth 
When touched by Time's regenerating kiss 

Receives a vision of eternal truth." 

The thought liere, which is a wise one for any poet to 
hold in his relation to life and the world, may be sup- 
plemented at this ]ioint by calling attention to an op- 
posite, suggesting the rounding out of the character of 
Mr. Wagner's poetic mind, and found in bis poem, 
"Advice to Poets." 

I liave indicated a level of thought and feeling in Mr. 



CRADLED MOONS 13 

Wagner's poetry from wliich he is able to extend his 
sympathy and emotion to various points of human ex- 
perience. He catclies the significance of all that comes 
within the range of his poetic mind with extraordinary 
quickness. He has the power of extracting tlie heart 
interest, which is, after all, the significant sentiment in 
song, and turning back to us the experience with fami- 
liar recollection. It is the appealing quality of his 
work. In doing this he knows how to turn the helpful 
aspect of life up to us. He is profound in his cheer- 
fulness, a cheerfulness that sometimes is full-bodied 
beneath the surface with the gravest questionings of life 
and fate. Take the thirty-one poems that make the 
sequence addressed to Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson 
as a tribute to his interpretation of the "Beautiful 
Character of the 'Passer-by,' " and one finds a poem 
that is admirable and beautiful in its moods and thoughts 
and ideals, a poem that ought to win for its author an 
instant recognition. Into this sequence there is a 
glamor and subtlety that streaks the thought like a fine 
vein of gold. I sliall quote here the second poem which 
is called "Wilful Women": 

Women are wilful, and the kindest are 

Truly the wilfulest. 'Twas always so. 
For e'en in my poor home my brightest star 

Which in life's darkest spots reflects its glow 
And guides me towards that goal I long have sought 

Hath seemed at times so wilful in its way 
That I rebelled and wandered in my thought 

As madly as careens the owl in day. 

I fain would choose and choose for self alone. 

And choosing thus, have stumbled oft and fell, 
And only by the light of love that shone, 

Though wilful, have I saved my soul from hell. 
For I have learned that woman's wilful mind 

Bespeaks a deep and underlying plan 
Which elevates, ennobles human-kind 

And makes me for the nonce a better man. 



Well, there is a touch of the Elizabethan manner in 



14 CRADLED MOONS 

these lines, a credit to Mr. Wagner's instinctive artless- 
ness of art. 

The themes that Mr. Wagner deals with are too 
numerous and varied to classify in this brief introduc- 
tion. An alert and ready sympathy gives his work a 
sense of the universal. He is a poet who expresses for 
each reader some particular interest. Hardly anyone 
but who will find in this volume the rendering of some 
dumb thought or feeling, emotion or idea, which they 
have carried about in childhood, in youth, in the noon- 
day of life, or in old age; during some moment of hope 
or sorrow, aspiration or love. 



; CRADLED MOONS 15 

INDEX 

Page 

FOR WHOM SHALL I WRITE? 23 

TO AN ABSENT MUSE 24 

THE FERN 25 

MY MOTHER 26 

THE PATH THAT BRINGS ME HOME 27 

LILAC BLOOMS 29 

I SHALL KNOW REST 31 

LOVE'S MISTS 32 

THE HUMAN LINCOLN 33 

THE VILLAGE SCHOOL 34 

MY EYES ARE YOUNG 39 

THINK ON EMPIRES 40 

YOU SIMPLY CAN'T 41 

BEAUTIFUL NIGHT 43 

THE MIDNIGHT HOUR 44 

THE TIME OF THE SINGING BIRD IS 

COME 45 

THE JUDAS WINDS ON CODMAN HILL 46 

THE SECOND MILE 48 

WHO IS MY NEIGHBOR ? 49 

DISAPPOINTMENT 49 

THE LAND OF MEMORY 50 

THE SERMON OF THE LILIES 51 

THE DOCTOR 52 

JUST A SIMPLE LITTLE FLOWER ; . . 54 

WHIRLWINDS 55 

SWEET ABBIE AT THE SPRING 56 

I AM ONLY DREAMING, DREAMING 57 

THE MOON, THE CLOUDS AND THE WIND 58 

MY BUTTERFLY 59 

THE BLAME 60 

THE DAWN 61 

THE LAND OF SHADOWS 62 

THE WOMAN IN MY ARMS 63 

WHISPERING FLOWERS 64 

SUNSET IN TREASURE VALLEY 65 

LINES TO THE BOSTON Y. M. C. A 66 

THE FINISHED HOUSE 67 

THE YARN OF THE "BILLOWS QUEEN".. 69 



16 CRADLED MOONS 

Page 

TO AN OLD, OLD BOOK 82 

THE SONG OF THE RUSHING FLOOD 83 

OUT OF THE DEPTHS 84 

TO THE FAIR UNKNOWN 85 

WHO IS CONTENT? 86 

HAPPINESS 87 

THE "CLOSED-INS" 88 

TO A FALLEN TREE 89 

THE BECKONING HILLS 90 

THE BLUE HILLS OF MILTON 91 

ON CHICATAWBUT HILL 93 

THE GHOST OF THE CRAGS 95 

THE SPIRIT BOUND 102 

THE FIRST CALL 103 

THE SOUNDING BOARD 103 

THE SHADOW MEN 104 

HIS SOUL FLOWERS 104 

IN THE SILENT REACHES OF MY SOUL.. 105 

THE SPIRIT OF MIRTH 105 

SLUMBERING YESTERDAYS 106 

THE SADDEST TIME 107 

MY STUDY 108 

THE SPIDER 108 

THE BLUE WAKE 109 

MY SWEETHEART'S EYES 112 

POEMS OF PARENTHOOD: 

FATHER 113 

IT WOULD BE NICE 113 

I WANT TO BE 'SIDE OF PAPA 115 

A LITTLE OUTSTRETCHED HAND 117 

A WORTHW^HILE THEME 118 

DISGRACE CORNER 121 

POLLIKINS 123 

THE FIRST KISS OF SUNSHINE 124 

BARBEE 125 

KING ROBERT 126 

MY BABY'S LIPS 126 

THE MEASURES OF LOVE 127 

THE PRICE WE PAY 129 



CRADLED MOONS 17 

Page 

A NOBLE THOUGHT 129 

MY LADY: 

MY LADY'S MORNING SONG 130 

MY LADY'S WITCHING DANCE 131 

MY LADY'S PRETTY NAME 132 

MY LADY OF THE VIOLIN 133 

MY LADY'S WONDROUS HAIR 134 

MY LADY'S GLEAMING GEMS 135 

MY LADY AND THE CRYSTAL GLOBE.. 136 

MY LADY WITH THE DROOPING ROSE. 137 

MY LADY GOES TO CHURCH 138 

MY LADY IN THE FIRE LIGHT 139 

MY LADY SLEEPS 140 

MY LADY IS MY DREAM GIRL 141 

MY WISTARIA GIRL 142 

FAREWELL 144 

TWO LETTERS: 

FIRST LETTER 145 

SECOND LETTER 146 

THE SPIRE OF SHAWMUT CHURCH 14'J 

THE SKY IS AWAKE 150 

SANDY ISLE 151 

THE PASSENGER COACH OF LIFE 152 

LINES TO A GROTESQUE INKSTAND 154 

THE COUNTRY GRAVEYARD 155 

THE SEEDLING THOUGHT 157 

THE MEASURE OF LIFE 159 

AU REVOIR, MISS JO 160 

THE CLICK OF THE WIELDED PICK 161 

LINES INSCRIBED TO MR. FORBES- 
ROBERTSON 162 

I. THE WANDERER 163 

II. WILFUL WOMEN 163 

III. REFLECTED BRIGHTNESS ..... . 164 

IV. PLEASANT THOUGHTS 165 

V. MIDDLE AGE 165 

VI. HUMOR 166 

VII. JOYS OF LIFE 167 

VIII. THE TRUEST LOVE 167 



18 



CRADLED MOONS 



Page 

IX. THE GUIDING HAND 168 

X. THE PERFECT LOVE 169 

XL THE MEETING PLACE OF 

FRIENDS 169 

XII. OLDEN THOUGHTS 170 

XIII. LOVE GOES ALL THE WAY 171 

XIV. HOPE 171 

XV. THE MISSION OF ART 172 

XVI. THE GREAT PRIVILEGE 173 

XVII. REGENERATING THOUGHT 173 

XVIII. ALTRUISM 174 

XIX. THE LONELY JEW 175 

XX. LOVE'S OFFERING 175 

XXL THE BETTER SELF 176 

XXII. I KNOW YOUR VOICE 177 

XXIII. THE FEAR OF BEING GREAT 177 

XXIV. THE W^ORLD'S NEED 178 

XXV. GIVING 179 

XXVI. TRANSIENT BEAUTY 179 

XXVII. SUBSERVIENCY 180 

XXVIII. LOVE AND THE FEAR OF 

POVERTY 181 

XXIX. A PROMISE 181 

XXX. A GLADSOME GIFT 182 

XXXI. LEAVE-TAKING 183 

TOO PROUD TO PRAY 181 

SONNET: To Virginia 185 

I NEVER KNEW^ 186 

HIS HEART WAS YOUNG 187 

THE GENTLE LIFE 188 

THE KINDEST MAN 189 

WAR-INSPIRED POEMS: 

THE GLORY AND SHAME OF GOD 191 

THE HYPOCRITE 192 

LOOK TO THE END 193 

THE YELLOW CLOUD 193 

THE RETINUES 195 

AN HANDFUL OF MEAI 197 

♦ THE ACCUSING HANDS 201 



CRADLED MOONS 19 

Page 

THE HALLOWED STAR OF GOLD 203 

THE SERVICE FLAG 205 

TWO LESSONS 206 

NO MAN'S LAND 208 

THERE IS BUT ONE 209 

. AN APOSTROPHE TO FRANCE 211 

THE SUPREME GIFTS 214 

THE MASTER GARDENER 217 

THE SYMBOL LOVE CHOSE 218 

OUR FLAG 219 

MY COUNTRY 220 

THE SUNSET FLAG 220 

TRUE PATRIOTISM 221 

BUILD ME A LODGE 222 

THE UNFOLDING WILL 228 

THE BRAVEST MAN 224 

WHAT IS A FRIEND? 225 

A PROVEN FRIEND 225 

REALIZATION 226 

THE JEWELED TREES 227 

THE HOPES OF SPRING 228 

O NOBLE DEAD (Memorial Day) 229 

HALLOWE'EN IS HERE 230 

AM I THANKFUL? 231 

THE HALLOWED HOUR 232 

THE SPIRIT GIVETH LIFE 233 

THE HOLLY THORNS 234 

BELLS O' NEW YEAR 236 

A NEW YEAR'S THOUGHT 237 

THE UNKNOWN TREK 237 

THE MAN W^ITH THE FIXED IDEA 238 

THE SPIRIT OF GOD 239 

THE WONDER SPRAY 239 

CUB LOVE 240 

THE DAISY TOLD A LIE 243 

WHEN MARY MAKES THE BREAD 244 

PREVARICATING MARY 245 

ADVICE TO POETS 246 

TOLSTOI'S REPLY TO THE RUSSIAN 

CHURCH 248 



20 CRADLED MOONS 

Page 

OUR HOME IN THE WOODS 249 

THE CONFESSION 250 

DEAR LITTLE SPRITE 250 

THE LOVE LETTER 251 

MATRIMONY 252 

CHARLES DICKENS 253 

INDIVIDUALISM 254- 

SUCCESS 255 

THE LAST CRUISE OF THE WABASH 256 

TO THE MARCH WINDS 258 

CAN ANY GOOD THING COME OUT OF 

NAZARETH ? 259 

DEO GRATIAS 261 

HE KISSED THE LIPS OF AMBITION 262 

CHERRY TIME .263 

THE GREAT MUSICIAN 265 

NO MAN CAN ESCAPE 266 

THE THINNING RANKS 267 

THE TIME TO BE CROSS 268 

THE KEEPER OF THE SPRINGS 269 

MY HEAVEN 270 

TO AN AUTOGRAPH FIEND 272 

MY GARDEN OF BLIGHTED HOPES 273 

THE POET'S ART • 274 

THE SETTLEMENT OF WOLLASTON 275 

THE PEOPLE I MEET ON THE TRAIN 294 

ST. LUKE XXIV 295 

A DROP OF INK 300 



CRADLED MOONS 



CRADLED MOONS 23 



FOR WHOM SHALL I WRITE? 

For wliom shall I write, and wliat purpose in sight? 

Do the critics give heed when invited to read 
The thoughts I indite in my study at night? 

Oh, no ; they impede every chance to succeed 
And strangle my might by praises so slight 

I fain would recede with my uttermost speed 
Back, back from the land of the poet's delight. 

For wliom, then, for whom shall I pierce the dark gloom 
Of the poet's own soul, or vent thoughts that control 

The spirits tliat loom in his intellect's tomb? 
Shall I stoop to cajole the plebian droll, 

Or shall I presume to the day of my doom 

To strive for a goal which is part of the whole ? 

Oh, no ; for such thoughts my soul has no room. 

I shall write for the prize in the gift of the wise, 
I shall strive for renown and in hope of a crown. 

My work shall comprise all the best I devise, 

What though critic or clown shall attempt to tear 
down 

Or damn and despise under faint praise's guise, 
And snicker or frown when they meet me in town, 

I shall write for the souls who with truth sympatliize. 



24 CRADLED MOONS 



TO AN ABSENT MUSE 

Oil, come, fruitful spirit, long known as the Muse, 

I fain would embrace tliee, thou hidden recluse, 

I've chased o'er the hills and dales of my mind. 

But never a trace of thy presence I find. 

In the depths of my soul I've called loud and long 

To bid thee return and give life to my song; 

But now tliou art silent, undutiful elf, 

And I am alone with my thoughts and myself. 

Hitherto thou hast helped me when love's dream I wrote. 

Thou hast lent me the fever its passions denote. 

But toniglit all its fire and deep, ruddy glow 

Seems to me and my reason a mere puppet show. 

When I sang of the river and old rustic mill, 

Tliou hadst tuned up my lay with a rhythmical thrill; 

I could see the old mill-wheel and the swift-rushing 

stream, 
But now, thou old truant, the mill runs by steam. 

I would fain dip my goose-quill in ink steeped in gall, 
Which would burn as it flowed as a caustic on all 
Who deserve the rebukes which a poet can fling. 
But the ink which I use is devoid of its sting. 
I would summon the past with its gliosts to appear 
For to tell me of tilings which no mortal should hear ; 
But just as I try these weird ghosts to control, 
My good neighbor next door begins shovelling coal. 

I would write of the Spring and its pleasures again, 
Of its beautiful flowers and its soft, gentle rain. 
But my window looks out on the night damp and cold. 
With old Boreas shrieking like a rigorous scold. 



CRADLED MOONS 25 

In the past I have drawn on full many a time 

The home and the mother to make up a rhyme, 

But tonight in my study come sounds through the door 

Which disturb me a bit, — 'tis the mater's low snore. 

I have studied the classics my soul to surcharge 
With beautiful thoughts which I fain would enlarge, 
But the cat's out of doors, and the fire, I know, 
Needs to have some more coal, or out it will go. 
Maybe, gentle Muse, when my labors are done 
You will light up my soul like a radiant sun. 
But too late you will be, for soon I will shed 
The mantle of poesy, and hie me to bed. 



THE FERN 

I saw a fern in creviced stone. 

Its dainty green pulsed with the wind, 
It must have grown for me alone, 

Since it brought God into my mind ; 
I saw its shallow earth confines. 

Its brothers in their leaf-loam glen 
Were lost amidst the grass and vines, 

But it brought joy to eyes of men. 

How like unto myself, I thought; 

The seed I've sown on stony ground 
Has taken root, and grown, and brought 

Rich glory to its narrow bound. 
And walls I thought that compassed me 

Have been but setting for my soul. 
Have raised me high and made me free, 

I am that fern in God's control. 



26 CRADLED MOONS 



MY MOTHER 

The twiliglit falls on Mother's life, 
The golden sunset gleams 
But faintly now ; 
The gathering shadows, too, are rife 
With fears ; the sun's last beams 
Grow dim; somehow 
The}' trouble not — my Mother. 

'Tis I who weep at close of day, 

For, as the dark comes down. 

Mine are the fears, 

I fain would fend her night away, 

I'd hide the proffered crown, 

Though Heaven nears. 

No anxious thought — has Mother. 

Her graying locks were once so dark. 
With ringlets prodigal, 
I was a child; 
Her voice, — the linnet and the lark 
Sang in her younger call 

And me beguiled, 
I've not forgot,- — O Mother. 

Dear God, — hold back those twilight shades. 
Heaven's shining land is blessed 
With angels fair ; 
If Night descends, my earth-light fades. 
No comfort lies in heart distressed; 
If she were there 
I'd be distraught, — for Mother. 



CRADLED MOONS 27 



THE PATH THAT BRINGS ME HOME 

When the sun has kissed the tree-tops, 

When their sliadows interlace 
In a dance of seeming concert 

Just outside my sylvan place, 
When the ruddy sky has softened 

Into neutral tints of gray, 
Then I leave my humble cottage ^ 

Foi* the world I face each day. 

As I tread the crooked footpath 

That convenience fashioned out, 
My sweet better selves (the children) 

Follow close with laugh and sliout, 
While the mother, like an angel, 

Hovers near with love-lit eyes. 
Till the highway (cruel jailer) 

Shackles me with Duty's ties. 

As the hours mark the dial 

Of the clock within my gaze. 
All despite the thousand worries 

Crowding through the anxious days, 
I can see that footpath leading 

To the spot my heart calls home. 
And I would not change its boundings 

For the grandest court in Rome ! 

When the evening shadows gather, . 

And the minutes, wearisome, 
Seem to move so slow and listless. 

Then the footpath whispers "Come," 
And once more upon the highway 

I retrace the steps of morn 
With life's burdens still upon the 

Shoulders that have overborne. 



28 CRADLED MOONS 



Till I reach that winding footpath 

Ages seem wrapped up in me, 
But a glimpse of smiling faces 

Waiting patient 'neath a tree 
That denotes my journey's ending 

Breaks a chord within my soul, 
And the millioned worlds of trouble 

From my burdened shoulders roll. 

Oh, the splendor of the sunset, 

Never w^as sucli golden glow. 
In each welcome kiss of childhood 

Is forgot life's fancied woe. 
Whilst my soul cries out within me. 

Life is Heaven typified. 
And the path seems paved with jasper 

Tread by angels glorified. 

There stands goddess of my heaven 

With the same love-light, I wis. 
In her eyes I saw at morning. 

Wafting me an ev^ening kiss, 
And the children's noisy prattle 

Of the day's recounted deeds 
Is of far more moment to me 

Than the fact that Europe bleeds. 

There, Ambition treads on roadbeds 

Built on greed and stained by blood. 
Here, 'tis Love that marks the pathway 

(Radiant bloom and growing bud). 
There, is mocked the God I worship. 

Here, His Name is lisped and sung. 
There, the world is lost to reason. 

Here the path has Wisdom's tongue. 



CRADLED MOONS 29 

With the Poet's eyes I'm looking 

In the future, and I see 
Still another path that's leading 

To a place prepared for me; 
But until the day it wliispers 

To me, "Come," and I shall roam, 
I will ne'er forget that blessed 

Little path that leads me home. 



LILAC BLOOMS 

Sweet was the kiss of the singing breeze, 

And rich was the lilacs' scent. 

The Poet, a dreamer, lay 

Content, 

Content to dream, 

Not of the winds and the swaying trees. 

Nor of the regal purples, bent 

By the spring-sent zephyrs of the May; 

Ah ! no, — not these, 

But 

Dreams of a full, untrammeled will, 

Dreams of a body free from eartli, 

The Poet, the dreamer, dreamt, 

Content 

In the thoughts of a Universe to fill 

With the hidden music of a higher wortli 

Than that for the earth-born meant. 

Yet he saw in the blooms with a thousand parts, 

In the purple and violet tones, and white, 

A something beyond tlie ken 

Of men, 

Of mortal men; 

The unfolding blossoms of the hearts 

That had braved a winter's snows, and night. 

And rejoiced with the Spring again; 



30 CRADLED MOONS 



His further dream 

This : 

That the countless flowers of the mortal soil 

Had felt the kiss of the winds of Love, 

With the world at peace once more, 

Yes, 

True peace ! 

And the racial blooms through a War's turmoil 

Had bowed to the Perfect Will above, 

To whispers that Hate foreswore ! 

Like an ocean's breast were the lilac flowers, 

On the side of the hill he stood. 

The Poet, the dreamer, saw 

Entranced 

The colored seas. 

And oh ! how he yearned for diviner powers, 

He would right the world, — if he only could. 

And rule by sublimer Law ; 

His God's 

Infinite Law ; 

That the trees and the shrubs and the flowers know, 

That the birds of the air and the bees obey. 

That the moon and the sun and the stars hold fast; 

Love ! 

God's Love; 

The Law that made the lilacs grow. 

That scented their tinted petals gay. 

The Law that is unsurpassed ! 

The Poet, a Dreamer, still. 

Content, 

Content to dream. 



CRADLED MOONS 31 



I SHALL KNOW REST 

Rest, rest; 

Oh, for the golden rest to come, 

Pillow of green, sweet moss and tangled grass, 

Where fringed gentians wave with the zephyrs that 

blow, 
Where the honey-rich thyme lures the bees' drowsy hum, 
Where the birds of the June sing God's peace as they 

pass, 
Wliere Nature shall phantom all sorrows I know; 
This, this is the rest I seek. 

Rest, rest; 

I once saw the blue on a proud peacock's breast, 

And its oscellate tail iridescent with gold, 

(The sun lent a rainbow to add to its charm), 

And I thought, what a pillow for me in my rest. 

I would gather the plumes, oh, so ruthless and bold, 

I would cluster the radiant blue in my arm 

As down for the rest I seek. 

Rest, rest; 

In the infant's eyes was the wonder gleam. 

And I sensed in its feeble gripping hand 

Its voiceless alarms at the unknown things. 

And I wondered if I, in a new world, would seem 

Cowed by the scenes I could not understand, 

Or lost in the wonder the Infinite brings, 

Not ready for rest I seek. 

Rest, rest; 

Soul-Friend of mine, when true rest sliall be earned. 

And I shall deserve the green-sodded bed 

With its marvelous sleep, and my wearied eyes close. 

When the lesson of Death and its mission is learned, 

Take the clay from my soul, and give me instead 

The bodv that covers the scent of the rose, 

Then, then comes the rest I seek! 



32 CRADLED MOONS 



LOVE'S MISTS 

Rainbows shine wlien clouds have parted, but their bril- 
liant colors seem 
Dull beside the dazzling beauty of the love-mist's glint 

and sjleam^ 
Mists that close on faults of dear ones^ mists that blind 

prosaic thought. 
Mists that capture blessed sunshine and reflect its 

brilliance caught, 
Mists that cast a golden halo over shallow, darksome 

pools, 
Mists that close on depths un fathomed, mists that bury 

deep the fools, 
Golden mists when kissed by sunrise, silver mists when 

twiliglits close. 
All surrounding, hiding secrets which are safe when but 

one knows. 

Only when love's mists have lifted is mankind exposed 

to blame. 
Only when the mists are broken is man's weakness 

known as shame, 
Only on life's burning deserts, where such mists are 

quite unknown. 
Do tlie faults, whicli men are prone to, naked stand and 

all alone. 
Shame on those wlio flout the presence of Love's rain- 
bow-tinted mist, 
Shame on those who see no beauty in the lives its tints 

have kissed, 
Shame, thrice shame on those who glory in the error 

brought to sight 
Which had best been left enveloped in the mists of 

Love's delight. 



CRADLED MOONS 33 



THE HUMAN LINCOLN 



God sometimes sends 
From out His boundless treasure-house of life 
A God-like man; 

And when He gave 
Unto our land the life we honor now, 
He had a plan. 

Tlie times were ripe; 
Men's troubled liearts cried out for one to lead, 
One staunch and true, 
And then arose 
This human soul who fathered his great flock 
As God would do. 

Men clung on him 
As the soft, white snow clings to the leafless trees 
When Winter reigns ; 

His sorrows weighed 
As the frosted down weights deep each naked bough 
Wliich bends, sustains. 

He knew men's hearts. 
And, knowing them, he had no eyes for shame. 
But saw their best ; 

His own great soul 
Oft groaned in solitude for those he knew 
Were sore oppressed. 

When Strife's sharp claws 
Had torn the States as wild-cats rend their prey, 
He soothed each wound; 
His was the hand 
That loosed the shackles from a subject race. 
The blacks unbound. 



34 CRADLED MOONS 

His spirit proved 
That man is more than simply moulded dust ; 
He mirrored God; 

And angels wept 
With finite men when he was laid at rest 
Beneath the sod. 



THE VILLAGE SCHOOL 

With the golden moonlight streaming 

Through my window open wide, 
I am all alone and dreaming, 

And the past years seem to glide 
Phantom-like before my vision, 

Each and every one in turn, 
Not a break nor an omission. 

And for them my heart doth yearn. 

Childhood's happy hours renewing, 

'Neath the moon's soft, mystic spell, 
And my memory's reviewing 

Boyhood days I loved so well. 
Days in which no thouglit of sorrow 

Marred the joy which childhood knew, 
When each glorious tomorrow 

Opened a new world to view. 

I can see a boy whose features 
Much resemble those of mine, 

WHiich, like other earth-born creatures. 
Many traits seem to combine. 



CRADLED MOONS 35 

I can see him as he trudges 

To that dear old village school ; 
I can see his skirted judges 

Place him on a dunce's stool. 

As I watch him mounting slowly, 

Step by step and grade to grade, 
I recall that great and lowly 

Each the first same steps have made. 
And each hope and aspiration 

Which I own, came first to me 
Through my teachers' inculcation 

And their kindly amity. 

I can hear the noisy prattle 

Of his schoolmates when at play ; 
But to-day they're doing battle 

With the world as best they may. 
Some have gone to study under 

Heavenly teachers of God's truth, 
And toniglit I can't but wonder 

If they still retain their youth. 

I remember, oh ! so clearly, 

Bright blue eyes and golden hair, 
One boy's sweetheart, loved so dearly. 

Who is now with angels there. 
Winsome smiles and blushes beaming 

On a bashful boy of twelve. 
And the tears fall wliile I'm dreaming 

Of the past in which I delve. 

I can see a wreath of flowers 

Resting lightly on a chair 
Close beside him, where for hours 

Sat this little maiden fair. 
I can hear the subdued sobbing 

Of a boy who'd lost a friend, 



36 CRADLED MOONS 

And tonight my heart is throbbing 
With the memories that attend. 

And I wonder when the ringing 

School bell calls me to that shore. 
Where are white-robed choirs singing, 

I shall know her as of yore. 
Will she be the same as childhood 

Memories reveal her now, 
Romping through the field and wildwood, 

Purity stamped on her brow ? 

Or, have girlhood's blossoms parted 

To reveal a woman's soul, - 

Still endeavoring as it started 

Towards a grand and lofty goal.'' 
Was tlie thread of life here broken 

Bound by God into Hope's strand. 
Which should serve to us as token 

Of that better promised land? 

From the schoolroom window gazing 

I can see a grassy hill. 
Where the cattle now are grazing. 

There the world seems calm and still. 
Once again I view the river 

Flowing sluggishly along. 
Where the willow brandies quiver. 

Where I hear the robin's song. 

I can see a kind face beaming 

Full of happiness and joy, 
And two sharp, bright eyes are gleaming, 

Focused on a naughty boy. 
They were owned by dear "Aunt Hannah," 

As we used to call her then. 
Whose sweet, gentle, loving manner 

Will ne'er be forgot by men. 



CRADLED MOONS 37 

I remember quite distinctly 

How she used to punish boys, 
How she often used to chide me 

For my whispering and noise. 
I was always quite loquacious 

(Even now it's not outgrown), 
And I think her efficacious 

Punishment I will make known. 

Every night as we were leaving 

She commanded those to stay 
Who deserved no kind reprieving, 

Those who'd whispered through the day, 
Wliile she kept them busy learning 

Poetry of every kind. 
Who, before their homeward turning, 

Verses five^must have in mind. 

So I think my love of rhyming 

Must have been augmented quite 
By the constant, measured timing 

Of those poems every night. 
Dear Aunt Hannah's now up yonder, 

And I think that I can see 
Good Saint Peter sit and ponder 

Over classic poetry. 

I can see a figure stately 

Standing by the schoolroom door, 
Ahd I watch it move sedately 

To the platform on the floor. 
'Twas my dearly loved schoolmaster, 

Who impressed me as a child 
Witli a knowledge that was vaster 

Tlian old Homer e'er compiled. 

And tonight the moonlight streaming 
Seems to cast his silhouette 



38 CRADLED MOONS 

On my mind as I am dreaming, 
And his pose I'll ne'er forget; 

One hand pointed to the ceiling. 
With his form erect and grand 

As he was to us revealing 
Oratory's master-hand. 

I can hear the windows rattle 

From his deep and lusty tone, 
As with Spartacus in battle 

Making his fierce feelings known. 
And the Storm King's mighty thunder 

Seemed not half as loud to me 
As that voice which we sat under 

Learning vocal purity. 

And whene'er I have occasion • 

To address my fellow men, 
I remember his oration. 

And old Spartacus again. 
And I try to put real fire 

Into everything I say. 
Such as he aimed to inspire i 

In his pupils every day. 

The old master still is living, 

Very gray and somewhat bent, 
And I know at times he's giving 

To this burning fire vent. 
And with truth I can assever 

Tlaat the knowledge which he taught 
Will inspire me forever 

Towards the goal my soul has sought. 

And tho schoolhouse still is standing 
Just a little from the street, 

Where upon each step and landing 
One can hear tlie children's feet. 



CRADLED MOONS 39 

But the charm for me is broken, 

As I'm dreaming liere alone, 
Since each sweet and loving token 

Of my past there now has flown. 

Still, I love that quaint, old building. 

And the golden moonbeams bright 
Seem to- flood its porches, gilding 

Every corner with delight. 
And" I'll ne'er forget the teachings. 

Ne'er forget that dunce's stool, 
Nor my kind, old master's preachings 

In that dear old village school. 



MY EYES ARE YOUNG 

Soft spake I to Age at his dusk of day, 
"Wouldst tell me thy secret,' friend? 

Thy form is gaunt and thy locks are gray. 
Yet Youth withal doth seem to lend 
Its spring-time smile and thee attend, 

Give me thy secret, pray." 

And Age replied: "Seest thou yonder field 

With its silk-weed pods now burst. 
And the fine white tlireads by the frosts revealed. 

Not yet by the winds dispersed. 

Nor yet by the snows amerced, 
Of their cradle-forming shield.'' 



40 CRADLED MOONS 

My locks are like down on the silk-weed, hung 

To pods on the frost-killed reeds, 
My limbs are like leaves to their dead stalks clung, 

But my eyes are liked margined seeds, 

Not scattered as yet to meads, 
And my eyes like them are young." 

Methought as I wended my way alone 
And viewed all the silk-weeds strung 

With their sloat-eyed seeds, and their down not blown. 
Of the golden words of this age-wise tongue, 
And I vowed to keep my eyes still young 

When mv vouth with vears had flown. 



THINK ON EMPIRES 

Many's the man who's fitted to lead 

Progression's van and empires build. 
Yet dribbles his time with things that impede 

And obstruct the things which might be fulfilled 
If he were but bold; 
Many's the place which harbors the man 
Who's fit to be king, yet by reason of doubt 
Contented remains and does what he can 

In some petty place with peasants about, 
And rusts and grows old. 

Many's the man whose parish has claimed 

All of his might while the world waits and waits 

For someone like him who can be inflamed 

With zeal for its needs and whose strength animates 
Tlie dull, sluggish mass ; 



CRADLED MOONS 41 

Many's the place, like Bethlehem small, 

Least in world-fame, yet is destined to bring 

From out of its midst a Ruler of aH, 

Crowned and acclaimed a Saviour and King, 
Too great for one class. 

Many's the man and many's the place 

That needs to be roused to the things tliey can be ; 
Many's the land and many's the race 

That offers a field for activity 
When once they awake ; 
If men will but think on empires grand 

Instead of on parishes petty and small, 
Their minds will mature and their souls will expand. 

And they will be ready to answer the call 
The Future shall make ! 



YOU SIMPLY CAN'T 

You can't be sick of living when you're working with 
your might, 

You can't be sad and lonesome when your heart with love 
is light, 

You can't fail to be thankful when you look around and 
see 

All the good things which surround you and God's liber- 
ality ; 

You simply can't. 

You can't be mean and selfisli when you share the things 

you own, 
You can't be cold and heartless when the warpath of love 

you've shown. 
You can't be introspective when your eyes once view the 

scene 
Of a world of broken spirits and you realize what they 

mean ; 

You simply can't. 



42 CRADLED MOONS 

You can't get out of patience when you sympathize with 

pain, 
You can't be cross and peevish when you know your loss 

is gain, 
You can't be slow or idle when your mind's responsive to 
Tlie great, glad world about you and tlie tilings wliich 

YOU might do; ' 

You simply can't. 

You can't rule men with hatred when the power of love 

is proved. 
You can't be hard or callous wlien you've let yourself be 

moved, 
You can't refuse a beggar when beneath his rags you see 
A brother man and heir to man's immortality; 
You simply can't. 

You can't be rude to children when you've felt a sweet 

child's kiss, 
You can't reprove tlie lonely when companionship you 

miss, 
You can't be deaf to sorrow when you've drained its 

bitter cup 
To the dregs and know the feeling of a hope that buoys 

you up ; 

You simply can't. 

You can't be irreligious when you ask and you receive, 
You can't be dumb and silent when you trust and you 

believe. 
You can't disguise God's presence when your soul is 

one with Him, 
Be you midst the scenes of plenty or where poverty 

stalks grim ; 

You simply can't. 



CRADLED MOONS 43 

BEAUTIFUL NIGHT 

Oh beautiful night, oh, beautiful night, 

How weak are mere words to express 
The thoughts that arise in my soul by the sight 

Of those charms which the earth doth possess. 

The moon's bright reflection in the rippleless lake, 

The trees, sombre shadows of dun. 
The dark purple hills in the distance awake 

The thought which in daytime I shun. 

The myriad stars seem like holes in the sky 
Wliere the glory of Heaven sifts through. 

And that fantastic cloud I view scurrying by 
Takes the shape of a swift kangaroo. 

The soft, gentle zephyrs which rustle the trees 
Seem to sing to my soul a sweet tune, 

And my sub-conscious self is again at the knees 
Of my mother, and lists to her croon. 

I recall that sweet song which thrilled with delight 

As she sang to a youngster of four, 
"Oh, Motlier, how pretty the moon is tonight. 

It was never so pretty before." 

I remember those eyes gazing up at the moon, 
'Tis the same moon that now greets my sight. 

And I choke back the tears as I hark to the tune 
Of the whispering breezes of night. 

And the ghosts of the past are now stalking abroad, 

Tlie mists of the valley take shape. 
They wander the roads which in past years I've trod. 

They now grip me, I cannot escape. 



44 CRADLED MOONS 

Oh, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful night, 
How weak are mere words to express 

The thoughts that arise in my soul by the sight 
Of those charms which the earth doth possess. 



THE MIDNIGHT HOUR 

Give me the quiet midnight hour 

To pen my solemn thought, 
'Tis then Creation's spirits tower 

And come to me unsought; 
Imagination tops them all, 

And leads in by the hand 
The king, men Inspiration call, 

Who reigns in Poets' land. 

The meanest herb in Nature's realm 

At that time seems to be 
Endowed with beauties which o'erwhelm 

And puzzle even me. 
Tlie drivel which some rustic spoke 

While old King Sol held sway. 
Remembered now, serves to invoke 

Some thoughts which went astray. 

The moon, just peeping o'er the cloud, 

I welcome as a friend. 
Save him alone, there's none allowed 

Their light with mine to blend; 
I want no one to come between 

The silence and my soul. 
My Better Self's at midnight seen 

And holds me in control. 



CRADLED MOONS 45 

The grating sounds of busy life 

Are stilled, thank God ! at last, 
And Babel's tongues and Egypt's strife 

Seem ages in tlie past. 
I need no books to create themes, 

I need no mentor's word. 
My conscience rules, and genius gleams, 

And God's own voice is heard. 



'THE TIME OF THE SINGING BIRD IS COME' 

Be still, my soul, in silence hark 
To raptured songs of pure delight 
From spring-birds on their winged flight. 
The mellow flute of meadow-lark 
With sequent notes rings clear and light. 
And breaks the spell of Winter's night; 
Oh, join in song, my soul! 

The red-wings on the brown marsh gleam, 
Their intermingled pipes are lieard 
In golden concert registered; 
The phoebe haunts the woodland stream. 
On listening brooks its song's conferred 
And sweet the cadence of its word; 
Oh, join in song, my soul! 

The grass-finch in the twilight sings 

The sombre song of closing day, 

He sings the passing sun to stay; 

The white-throat sparrow's carolings 
Reflect the joy of runaway 
From unloved climes, a bird's hooray; 
Oh, join in song, my soul! 



46 CRADLED MOONS 

The robins and the blue-birds call, 
The veery cheeps rich melody, 
And echoes mock the chickadee; 
The God of Spring hath sent them all. 
And in their tuneful harmony 
My future Spring sings out to me; 
Oh, join in song, my soul! 



THE JUDAS-WINDS ON CODMAN HILL 

Good friend, know you of Codman Hill, 
In Dorchester, old Dorchester? 

'Twas there 
Tlie mild -November day I spent 
Till twiliglit shadows grew and lent 
To sappling trees a measurement 

That years might not fulfil. 
The Judas-Winds that kiss, — betray, 
And steal the leaves in Fall's array, 
Were mellowed by the sun this day, 

And bore no season's chill. 

Behold ! 

The sun, a ball of crimson gold. 

Another day as fair foretold, 

But, oh ! my soul was not consoled, 

It fain would stay the light; 
It sensed in even's murk and gloom 
The shadowed death of primehood's bloom, 
It caught the odors of the tomb 

Borne on the breeze of night. 



CRADLED MOONS 47 

A boy 

In yester-years, I've not forgot 
, I goaded kine on yonder lot 
Close by, the brook's moss banks I've sought 

For tender flowers of spring. 
The southern slope, near where I stood, 
We used to know as Morton's Wood, 
A paradise-like neighborhood 

To boys with soul a-wing. 

And oh ! 
I well remember gypsy bands 
That camped upon the sloping lands, 
They read one's future in the hands. 

And traded basket ware ; 
The mill-folk in the village near 
Would double lock their doors in fear 
Lest some nomadic hag appear 

And steal their treasures rare. 

This night 
The Judas-Winds on Codman Hill 
That kissed my cheek, soft blowing, still 
Like Magyar tribes, who stole at will. 

They robbed me of my joy; 
They took the jewels of my past. 
And blew away to ages vast 
The treasure-stores that once were massed 

Within the heart of boy. 

Good friend, 
ril go no more on Codman Hill, 
In Dorchester, old Dorchester. 

For there 
I saw the hopes of youthful years 
Blown on the winds of doubts and fears, 



48 CRADLED MOONS 

The whirling leaves that Autumn seres 
. Were prayers of mine, now dead ; 
But, oh ! if you will climb the slope 
With staff in hand and telescope, 
The winds that made me misanthrope 
May bring you joy instead. 



THE SECOND MILE 

Has it been your lot to meet 

One who's gracious, kind and sweet, 

One who greets you on the street 

With a smile? 
Have you found a friend, unpressed, 
Giving all at Love's behest. 
And who goes without request 

One more mile? 

Do you give that extra touch. 

Prove a favor not as such. 

But a pleasure wished for, much, 

And worth while ? 
Do you add sweet grace and charm, 
Lend refusals soothing balm. 
Go in spirit arm in arm 

One more mile ? 

'Tis the little acts, my friend. 
Simple arts which oft-times blend 
Happiness with deeds, and lend 

Grace and style; 
Wealth and fame are poor beside 
Such a charm, and vain is pride, 
Love will ever prompt and guide 

One more mile. 



CRADLED MOONS 49 

WHO IS MY NEIGHBOR? 

Who is my neighbor? He of whom 'tis said 
That I must love e'en as my very self, 
And act unto as Good Samaritan 
In time of need? Does this imply that he 
Whose latticed porch is shadowed by the sun 
Upon my walk has the first claim on me 
For love and help ? Or is it he who comes 
Each day with me in contact on the mart 
Within the town? Oil, foolish soul to ask! 
My neighbor is the world and all therein ; 
The lowly, poor, the struggling, troubled heart, 
The sick, the lame, and they whom sorrow rules 
Are neighbors all to me — and I should strive 
To prove my love to them in everything. 



DISAPPOINTMENT 

I said I had a friend, 

A worthy friend; 
I gauged him by his daily word, 
I plumed myself on strength inferred 
As lent by him ; somehow he heard 
My need was great. Did aught he ever lend? 

Not he; 
I lost my friend ! 

I said I had a friend, 

A kindly friend; 
I proved him seemingly to ring 
Like purest gold, and friendship's seasoning 
Seemed evidenced. I bade him hear me sing 
My burdened song. Think you he did attend? 

Not he; 
I lost my friend ! 



50 CRADLED MOONS 

I said I had no friend, 

No sincere friend; 
I knew not friendship's sweetest bliss 
Was near to me, — my sweetheart's kiss 
Redeemed false loves. Not now I miss 
My erstwhile friends. Think you she could pretend? 

Not she; 
I have a friend ! 



THE LAND OF MEMORY 

Where is the Land of Memory, 

The land of long ago? 
Is it some isle on Love's deep sea 

Where everlastings grow ? 
Are shining stars with twinkling light 

The peep-holes in its floor? 
Or was the sunset of last night 

Its brilliant, golden door? 

There is no death in Memory, 

But all is life and joy, 
And innocence and purity 

Our baser thoughts destroy ; 
We see the soul and not the clay. 

The God, and not the man. 
And what seemed dross but yesterday 

Proves gold within the pan. 

And age and youth in Memory 

Are welded into one. 
The dim shades of futurity 

Reflect its setting sun. 



CRADLED MOONS 51 

No storm-king rules witli tyrant hand. 

No lightnings rift its sky, 
Its outskirts border Heaven's land, 

And God is ever nigh. 

I love the Land of Memory, 

The bright tlioughts of the past 
Take shape tonight and come to me 

From out tlie Unknown, vast ; 
The dear ones tliat have gone before 

Are wakened from their sleep ; 
Whene'er I knock on Memory's door 

They bid me not to weep. 

I've found the Land of Memory, 

Tlie fairest land of all. 
The bluebirds flit from tree to tree, 

I hear tlie linnet's call ; 
And lilies bloom so pure and white. 

Sweet fragrance they impart. 
Oh, Memory's Land is my delight, 

I've found it in mv heart. 



THE SERMON OF THE LILIES 

In the beauty of the lilies we can see the love of God. 
TJiey, without a conscious effort, rise supreme above the 
sod, clothed in purest tints of glory,, fed by springs sent 
from above,, each a Message of Creation, each an em- 
blem of His love. 

O ye souls that doubt and falter, here is Truth 
sublime, that lives in the lilies kissed by Heaven, prov- 
ing Love divine He gives ; are ye not of much more 
moment than the lilies of the field.'' Yea, believe, and 
Faith returneth more than fondest hopes can yield. 



52 CRADLED MOONS 

THE DOCTOR 

The Doctor ! How that name doth call to mind 

A train of thoughts, some painful, some sublime. 

And visions rise of grim Death put to rout 

By his great skill. No hero of the past 

Deserves to be acclaimed, or wear a crown 

More than doth he. For him no sacrifice 

Has been too great; no deed too small to claim 

His noblest thought. His duty stands supreme. 

On his broad shoulders there is placed a load 

So great, which, were we called to share, we'd cry 

Aloud in agony and pain, — and yet 

No sign or word doth emanate from him. 

He doth not show by outward countenance 

The burdens of humanity he bears. 

I watch him as he sits beside the bed 

Of a sick child. The mother with her hands in prayer 

In dumb appeal aloft entreats God's help. 

The father with a soul too full of grief 

To shed a tear is close beside her there. 

And he alone of all reflects a calm 

Like unto that which stills the ocean's deeps 

Ere they are lashed by furies of the storm. 

I see the yellow lamp-light gleam and spread 

Its brilliant rays which seem to tinge with gold 

Each little curl that nestles 'round the head 

Of the sick babe. No smile plays o'er those lips 

Made redder by the fever's burning course. 

E'en hope seems dead; — and yet, to him, there's hope. 

Again my memory doth reveal a scene, 

A happy, thankful scene of joy which shows 

A doctor's hope made real, an answered prayer; 

Two grateful hearts whose benisons descend 

Upon his head. I see a child wlio bursts 

Into the picture with its arms outstretched. 



CRADLED MOONS 53 

With smiles upon those lips where fever raged. 

I see two arms around the doctor's neck 

In child-like love; and all is peace and joy. 

I read a doctor's heart as he departs. 

Anxiety and care have furrowed deep. 

That heart has bled and wept in solitude, 

And no one knew. And now its prayers ascend 

In thanks to God who stayed Death's fearful hand. 

I go with him upon his daily round 

To other homes where sickness and despair 

Are crouching low, like monsters of the wood 

Who snatch life's travellers as they tread the road. 

And in them all he's treated just as if 

He bore within his palm the spark of life, 

And could bestow on all who asked of him 

The boon of health and happiness and peace. 

I watch him in the fierce storm's height go forth 

With no thought of himself or rest's desire^ 

And answer duty's call with a sweet smile 

Which cheered and briglitened every soul in sight, 

And never do I hear a word that breathes 

A discontented syllable aloud. 



O Doctor, there's a regal crown for you. 

And when the Great Physician calls you home 

You'll find a robe of iridescent cloth 

Is weaved for you from out the tears of love 

Which have been shed by those you've blest on earth, 

You'll find a place that Christ Himself has made 

And has reserved for you. He went about 

As you do now, and healed the sick and lame. 

And He has granted you the skill and might 

To emulate Him in your work of love. 

And every morn our prayers on high shall rise 

To bless you as you go upon your way, 

And never will you lack an earthly friend 

While we are living in this finite world. 



54 CRADLED MOONS 



JUST A SIMPLE LITTLE FLOWER 

Just a simple little flower 

Wet with morning dew and shower, 

Blest with potent, mystic power 

To dispel 
Gloom and sorrow from the faces 
Of the poor in cheerless places, 
And the sweetest heart it graces 

Oh, so well. 

Just a simple little flower 

Never missed from Nature's bower. 

Yet it cheered a darkened hour 

And beguiled 
For a day a fever-ridden, 
Helpless soul in slum-life hidden. 
Where sweet gardens are forbidden 

To a child. 

Just a simple little flower 

Rifts with sunshine clouds tliat lower, 

And disperses glooms which tower 

Mountains high. 
Even kings can ne'er be knowing 
Greater joys that its bestowing 
To the child of sorrow showing 

Bright blue sky. 



CRADLED MOONS 55 



WHIRLWINDS 

The deepest dregs of direst woe 
Are drained in time by those who sow 
The whirlwinds. 

You cannot glean from woman's tears 
Repentance for the misspent years 
In whirlwinds. 

The idler's sport, the gambler's dice, 
The moments spent in foolish vice. 
Are wliirlwinds. 

Neglected hearts, forgotten pride. 
And perverse thoughts are things that ride 
On whirlwinds. 

And Love's bold wings are much too weak 
To soar on winds of which we speak. 
These whirlwinds. 

Its pinions spread are blown away 
And lost forever and a day 
By whirlwinds. 

God help the fool that thinks that he 
Can sow and reap successfully 
All whirlwinds. 



56 CRADLED MOONS 

SWEET ABBIE AT THE SPRING 

I have read of sculptured beauties 

Carved by Phidias of old., 
With liands and feet of ivory. 

With draperies of gold; 
But to me he never equaled 

The grace which seems to cling 
To the picture of sweet Abbie 

A-drinking at the spring. 

I have read the odes of Horace 

And have marvelled at his art. 
And the sweet love-songs of Sappho 

Have found echoes in my heart, 
But the music of these poets 

And the love of which they sing 
Seem but dross compared with Abbie 

A-drinking at the spring. 

Her simple gown of muslin 

More regal was to me 
That ermine robes of princes 

In courts across the sea. 
No artist ever painted 

For potentate or king 
A picture quite like Abbie 

A-drinking at the spring. 

The riisted, battered dipper. 

When raised to her pure lips, 
Was filled with nectar sweeter 

Than that which Bacchus sips. 
No hand-wrought cup of silver 

Could recollections bring 
Like the dipper used by Abbie 

A-drinking at tlie spring. 



CRADLED MOONS 57 

Her laughing eyes reflected 

The liquid depths below, 
And as I stood and watched them 

My heart was steeped in woe; 
Alas for me! I'm married, 

And bound as with a string, 
I must not think of Abbie 

A-drinking at the spring. 



I AM ONLY DREAMING, DREAMING 

Golden hair and laughing eyes, 

Wealth of beauty which men prize. 

Ruby lips and form divine. 

No, they never can be mine, 

I am only dreaming, dreaming. 
With the golden moonliglit streaming 
Through my study door. 

Just a boy I seem to be, 

Happy as a lark and free. 

Romping through the wooded dell 

Witli the one I love so well. 

But I'm only dreaming, dreaming. 
With the golden nioonlight gleaming 
Through my study door. 

Why, oh why, must I awake. 

And my pleasant dreams forsake. 

Wake and find denied to me 

All but grave reality? 

Know I'm only dreaming, dreaming, 
With the golden moonlight beaming 
Through my study door. 



^8 CRADLED MOONS 



THE MOON, THE CLOUDS AND THE WIND 

The moon would shine on the earth below, 

But the clouds said "Nay/' 
They'd tease her by rifting an inch or so, 
They'd mock her by thinning their depths, and crow 
When tlie angry moon its clioler would sliow 

In its dismay. 

Tlie moon then whistled the wind to come. 

And begged its aid, 
It came with a rusli, and roar, and hum. 
It came in a mood so quarrelsome 
Tliat the naughty clouds were all struck dumb. 

And were afraid. 

They scampered away like frightened mice. 

And then for this 
The moon paid the wind its usual price 
For using its blust'ring, fierce device 
To scatter such pest'ring clouds in a trice, 

A golden kiss. 



CRADLED MOONS • 59 



MY BUTTERFLY 

As the butterfly held in the mesh of the net, 

So have I caught you, darling, at last, 
'Twas a right merry chase whicji I'll never forget 

You led me in days which are past. 

Your poor little wings are worn out with the flight, 

They were strong and defiant at start, 
But now they're outstretched as a proof of Love's might 

And are pinned on the walls of my heart. 

But, unlike the insect which dies when impaled, 
Your capture and pinions have seemed 

To invigorate life, and my heart is assailed 
With regrets such as I've never dreamed. 

I know I've no right to steal you away. 

You were happy when sipping the dew 
P'rom the sweet-scented rose and the hyacinths gay 

Which God must have meant just for you. 

But wantons like me never think till too late. 

Nor regret till regrets are in vain. 
We pluck where we will and we quarrel with Fate 

When denied the things we would gain. 

I'm sorry if I, in my long, cruel race. 

To capture so pretty a thing, 
Have forgot all but self and delights of the chase. 

And the hopes which a capture might bring. 



60 CRADLED MOONS 

But there, — never mind, I shall set you free; 

Look ! here are the pins in my hand, 
If you will, you may fly to your flowers, and be 

The same rainbow queen of the land. 

What ! staying around when you might go your way ? 

'Tis madness, O Butterfly mine. 
Did I crush your poor wings so you really must stay 

And weep for the past that was thine? 

No, no, pretty one, love heals every wound, 
I've guessed why you stay, — 'tis just this: 

There's honey as sweet as in flowerets found 
Which lies in the depth of a kiss ! 



THE BLAME 

Men couple her name with sin and with shame. 
They sneer as she passes them by. 

Yes, they do, brother mine, yes, they do, 
But she not alone is deserving of blame, 
Has she fallen much lower than I, 

Or than you, brother mine, or than you? 

We helped her along the vice-cobbled road. 
We made it alluring and grand. 

Yes we did, brother mine, yes we did, 
And coward-like now, we turn and we goad. 
And the shelter of home to such of her brand 
We forbid, brother mine, we forbid. 

We forced her to slave for a pittance a day. 
It was hard, by the gods ! it was hard. 

So she cried, brother mine, so she cried. 
We cabined her soul and we stifled its play. 

We fed her on husks and all pleasures we barred, 
She 'most died, brother mine, she 'most died. 



CRADLED MOONS 61 

We licensed the hell that meant ruin to her, 
Maybe we put wine to her lips^ 

Did we thus, brother mine, did we thus? 
We tempted, she fell, and when once she did err, 
We drove and we scourged her with whips 
Far from us, brother mine, far from us. 

We closed every path that led to the right, 
We locked every door of return. 

Was it wise, brother mine, was it wise? 
And with hypocrite hearts and with tongues all polite 
W^e buried our sins in an urn 

Made of lies, brother mine, made of lies. 

She has paid the price, and we have gone free, 
'Twas always that way in this world, 

What a shame, brother mine, what a shame! 
The onus of such falls upon you and me. 
At Judgment this trutli will be luirled. 

We're to blame, brother mine, we're to blame ! 



THE DAWN 

Shimmering, glimmering, mystical Dawn, 

Herald art thou of the birth of the morn. 

Robed in thy gown bespangled with dew. 

Flushed is thy cheek with a deep crimson hue, 

Golden thy locks and blue is thine eye. 

Sweet are my thoughts when thy charms I descry. 

Gloom in my lieart at thy coming takes wings, 
Joy sees thy smile and exultingly sings, 
Memory sleeps and dead is the past. 
Yester-year's hopes like an army are massed, 
Strengthened, I leap with a power new-born, 
Loosed from my doubts, I welcome thee, Dawn. 



62 CRADLED MOONS 



THE LAND OF SHADOWS 

The Land of Shadows is the Land of Dreams, 

The realms of the "Might have been," 
And it lies just beyond the mountains called "Schemes, 

It is close to the land of "Begin"; 
Their shores do not meet, though the roseate rays 

Of tlie sunshine of Hope oft have shone 
On them both in the dawn, but it lights up the days 

Of the Land of "Begin" alone. 

The Land of Shadows is the Land of Death, 

It looms on the great sea of Life 
Like a mirage of Hell, yet it's lost in a breatli 

When it's touclied by the winds of strife ; 
'Tis peopled by ghosts of the wrecks of mankind, 

'Tis watered by Lethean springs, 
No flowers grow there and no trees will you find, 

And never a bird sweetly sings. 

The Land of Shadows is the Land of Shame, 

The sliame of our imperfect wills. 
Where impulses burst for a moment in flame. 

And die ere they light up the hills ; 
I'd much rather live in the Land of "Begin," 

Where dreams and where doubts are unknown. 
Where the gods of the land bid men rise up and win 

Through the strength of afiirming alone. 



CRADLED MOONS 63 



THE WOMAN IN MY ARMS 

As the soft wliite down of the wild duck's wing 
Or the gossamer webs which the spiders fling 
In iilmy tangle beside the spring 

So liglit are the weights of love; 
And my weakling arms are as bands of steel 
When my sweetheart's form in their clasp I feel. 
For the gods give strength to a lover's zeal 

And smile from their heights above. 

For my loved one's kiss and her soft caress 
Dispel every tinge of my weariness 
Brought on by a day of bitterness 

In the marts where the slavish toil; 
And her gentle voice with its liquid strain 
Seems Lethean like to each seeming pain, 
And drives from my mind every trouble profane 

And thought of tlie day's turmoil. 

Here's a kiss, my love, with a silent prayer. 

Which, granted, shall yield you blessings so fair 

That naught with your happiness e'er shall com})are 

While God gives you life on earth; 
My arms I'll extend to encircle your soul, 
A refuge for you when storm billows roll. 
My heart sliall I keep for your fullest control 

As tribute to womanhood's worth. 



64 CRADLED MOONS 



WHISPERING FLOWERS 

Whispering flowers, murmuring liours, 
Nodding and sighing to us as you grow, 

Bowing and bending, 

Sweet perfume lending, 

Zephyrs attending 
Which softly blow. 

Tell me your story, whence comes your glory, 
Why are your petals with color aglow ? 

Have you been stealing 

Hues from earth's ceiling. 

And them revealing 
To us below ? 

Sunrise and sunset, cobalt and roset, 

All have been merged and in you overflow. 

Each color gleaming 

Reflects the streaming 

Sun in its beaming. 
Radiant bow. 

When Nature fashioned in love impassioned. 
Did she intend just your beauty to show.^ 

In your gay dressing 

Was she not blessing 

Us by expressing. 
Love which we know ? 



CRADLED MOONS 65 



SUNSET IN TREASURE VALLEY 

The golden stream reflects the gleam 

Of sunset on the hills, 
The waters glide in peace beside 

A land which nature tills. 
No dark clouds loom with wrathful gloom 

To mar the gorgeous sight, 
The whispering trees rocked by the breeze 

Have kissed the sun good-night 
Again in Treasure Valley. 

The herded sheep in grasses deep 

No longer roam the vale. 
The rising moon gives light that soon 

Will flood each hill and dale. 
The barn-yard fowl and beasts that prowl 

Have sought their covered nooks. 
No singing bird is seen or heard 

Where flows the babbling brooks, 
'Tis night in Treasure Valley. 

Enraptured, I view earth and sky 

In glorious ecstasy, 
For this is life, here is no strife, 

But all is harmony. 
I fain would stay by night and day 

By Golden River's lands. 
When sets my sun and life is done 

I'd rest beneath its sands 

For aye in Treasure Valley. 



66 CRADLED MOONS 

LINES TO THE BOSTON Y. M. C. A. 

On the laying of the corner-stone of the New Building, 
October 3, 1912. 

A signed copy of this poem was deposited in tlie corner- 
stone box of the Y. M. C. A. Building 

Xhou miglity force wliich builds today and well 
A fitting home to give expression to 
Thy noble work which has no parallel 
In this our day; we pledge to thee anew 
Our strength, our love ; and fervently we pray 
That He Whose life has been thy glowing light 
Will bless these walls which symbolize the way 
Thou doest good, — the way of building right 

Builder in men of character sublime, 
Whose life outlasts such monuments as these 
Which must give way to all-desti*oying Time 
Despite their strength, and fall when Age decrees, 
Thy work shall last ; thy noblest building stands 
Defying all the elements and e'en Eternity, 
It is a house that was not made by hands. 
Its cornerstone, — the Holy Trinity. 

Teacher of Truth, men's bodies thou hast shown 
To be the biding place of greater things 
Than e'er were dreamed, or by our fathers known. 
The gods of health, long bound by custom's strings ; 
Thou makest men where brutes had seemed to dwell, 
Thou findest depths where shallows heretofore 
Had marked Life's sea; — thou always builded well 
For no reward but Love, — received no more. 

If all the deeds which glorify thy past 
Were marked by stones and built within this wall. 
The World would stand amazed because so vast 
Would be this pile that naught could hold it all; 



CRADLED MOONS 67 

Were half the tilings made possible through thee, 
Or quarter known, thy name would ring for aye 
Through unborn years, and men thy worth would see, 
And pray the Lord thy strength to amplify. 

Rise up, ye walls, your heads in splendor lift, 
No grander heritage than yours I ken, 
For you shall house God's greatest, noblest gift 
To mortal kind — tlie gift to work for men. 
Build strong, ye builders, typify in stone 
The divine attitude which marks the past, 
The sacrificial spirit, which alone 
Has made this great Association last. 



THE FINISHED HOUSE 

Written for tlie Dedication of the New Boston 
Y. M. C. A. Building 

The finished house. The realized dream of those 

Who bore the brunt of pioneering toil 

Midst darkened hours of doubt and stern resolve 

And saw it loom as Jacob viewed the steps 

Loom liigh to Heaven; whose prayers moved mountain 

rocks 
Of men's indifference. 

Behold it now ! 
Complete it stands — complete, yet not complete, 
Each brick within its bounds marks sacrifice 
Of earnest souls who moulded flesh and blood 
Into its chryalis. Its lieritage 
So grand, so rich,, must equalled be by deeds 
Ere it doth stand complete. 



68 CRADLED MOONS 

How proud it gleams ! 
A conscious pride. Its form seems animate 
And breathing liope of future worth and place. 
It feels the blood of Service course and run 
Within its veins, — the purest, richest blood, 
Drawn from its pristine source, the Master's heart, 
The Sacrificial Lamb. 

God's proven wealth ! 
The Book of Life. Its gold of knowledge shines 
Within these walls-, and needs no alchemist 
To bare its sheen ; no mint to coin its form 
For earthly use. The struggling soul's desire 
Is here fulfilled. Save immortality. 
No greater boon exists. 

The earth-clay's needs ! 
God's temple, loaned, herein finds strength renewed. 
The deep, sore wounds of worldly conflict heal 
As though some potent talisman had charmed 
And cured straightway. The almost-man here finds 
His nature's needed vent. The streams of life 
Pulsate and flow within. 

O God^of Hosts! 
This finished house we dedicate to Thee ! 
We pledge its service and its inhered strength 
Unto Thy cause. Yet not in vaunting pride 
We offer this. We but return a tithe 
For measures granted us. Bless Thou this house, 
O God of Hosts ! Amen. 



CRADLED MOONS 60 



THE YARN OF THE "BILLOWS QUEEN' 



While resting in a quiet park 

One sultry summer day, 
I heard a grizzled tar's remark, 

And turned my gaze his way. 
His tone, his walk, his style, his look 

Betrayed the sailor bold, 
His bent and crooked body shook 

As he this story told. 



Before him, seated in a row, 

Were children half a score, 
I saw their faces flush and glow 

Because of treats in store, 
And I could not but overhear 

The gray-haired mariner, 
As he told of his life's career 

I played the listener. 



He sat upon the grassy sod 

And puffed his pipe of clay. 
And with a wink and knowing nod 

To me, I heard him say: 
"Yo ho, my hearty crew, yo ho, 

A story will I tell 
Which none but me its trutli doth know, 

Indeed, I know it well. 



'Twas in the year of '61, 

I never shall forget, 
And though full fifty years have gone. 

Its memory haunts me yet. 



70 CRADLED MOONS 

I sailed upon the 'Billows Queen,' 
A good ship, staunch and bold, 

A trimmer craft I ne'er have seen, 
Nor e'er liope to behold. 



A goodly crew we had on board, 

Nigh tliirty robust tars, 
Our Captain was by all adored, 

He knew each harbor's bars. 
We hoisted sail at Boston Town, 

Bound to tlie Afric sliore. 
And in our hold was battened down 

A hundred casks or more. 



Each cask contained old Medford rum 

To cheer the Hottentot, 
And I'll confess that often some 

Of us its good clieer sought. 
We'd scarce been out three days at sea 

Wlien stormy winds awoke 
The ocean from its reverie 

And did its rage provoke. 

The waves they ran like mountains high. 

We thouglit our doom was sealed, 
Tlie lightnings flaslied from out tlie sky, 

And our bare poles revealed. 
We rode first on the highest crest, 

Then sank into the trough. 
No voice was heard in lavighing jest. 

No one was known to scoff. 



We prayed the saints as ne'er before. 

With fervor not outdone, 
And some got mixed and loudly swore. 

For prayers they had learned none. 



CRADLED MOONS 71 

I heard tlie bos'n rant and curse^ 

I heard the mate revile, 
And what the Captain said was worse 

In fluency and style. 



The wind it blew us off our course 

Almost a thousand knots, 
Unto the North with frightful force 

To cold and unknown sjjots. 
We soon were in the Arctic climes, 

Where icebergs could be seen. 
All threatening to smash at times 

Our good ship 'Billows Queen.' 

That storm had lasted most a week 

Ere we could see the blue 
And smiling sky, though we did seek 

Each day the sun anew; 
And when at last it shone out bright. 

We danced in ecstasy, 
But suddenly we saw a sight 

Which stopped our shouts of glee." 



The old man paused and looked around 

The quiet little group. 
Who sat upon the grassy mound. 

An interested troupe, 
With rounded eyes and faces white 

They listened eagerly. 
And to be frank, he did excite 

My curiosity. 

They waited for him to renew 

His story of the sea. 
And as he filled his pipe anew 

The old man winked at me. 



72 CRADLED MOONS 

I saw a twinkle in his eye, 
I heard him chuckle low, 

As he commenced to amplify 
And make his story grow. 



"Our good ship's bow was headed south 

When lo ! abaft the beam. 
We stared with widely open mouth 

And saw the sunlight gleam 
Upon an ice-encrusted mast 

A league or more away, 
An ancient craft bound hard and fast 

Full many an Arctic day. 

Although we knew full well our plight, 

We luffed her, then hove to, 
And launched our boats with all our miglit, 

And towards the wreck we drew. 
The air was bitter, bitter cold, 

'Twas forty, quite, below. 
For miles around we could behold 

The white and crusted snow. 



We stepped upon the icy main. 

And o'er its tortuous grind 
We struggled on with fear and pain. 

The whiteness made us blind. 
The way seemed longer, too, by far 

That WQ. had deemed it so. 
But nearer loomed that naked spar 

Which beckoned us to go. 



With fearful hearts _we toward it drew, 

Our party numbered ten. 
The bravest of our goodly crew. 

All sturdy, stalwart men. 



CRADLED MOONS 7^ 

We climbed the ragged, icy peaks. 

We wrested with the snow, 
The wind it slashed and cut our clieeks, 

'Twas fierce to undergo. 



An hour brought us to the wreck, 

An ancient craft was she, 
We clambered quickly on her deck 

With all our energy. 
We noted everything in sight 

From forecastle to aft. 
To see if anything there might 

Be salvage on the craft. 

But all was still and like a tomb, 

Thougli as we gazed around 
We noted that despite her doom 

Her timbers were all sound. 
We knew she must have been at least 

A hundred odd years old. 
And since her active days had ceased 

Full seventv-five were told. 



The rigging, what was left of it, 

Was of an ancient style, 
And nothing outward did befit 

Our needs or seem worth while. 
We forced the frozen deck house door. 

And entered one by one. 
The Captain's room first to explore 

Ere we the hold begun. 



And I was first of all of those 
Who entered in that place, 

I tripped and fell, and as I rose 
I gazed into a face. 



74 CRADLED MOONS 

'My God!' I cried, for sitting there 

Before me I could see 
A frozen man in an old chair. 

Alive, he looked to be. 

And in that dim, uncertain light 

His eyes shone with a glare 
At me, as if to ask what right 

I had to enter there. 
And question why I dared intrude 

In such an awkward way, 
With manners that were very rude 

And ignorance display. 

But sailors have no time to fear, 

And we all gathered round 
The grewsome sight with oath and jeer 

To learn what could be found. 
There in a corner I espied, 

Stretclied out as if asleep, 
A maiden fair, who must have died 

While in a slumber deep. 

A prettier lass I've never seen, 

Although deatli robbed her bloom, 
A frozen smile was on her mien, 

Wliich seemed to light the room. 
Methought that eighteen years had rolled 

Ere this catastrophe 
O'erwhelmed her, and the bitter cold 

Had stilled her vouthful glee. 



The dress of both the man and maid 

Was of a period known 
When George the Third his hosts arrayed 

Against our valiant own. 



CRADLED MOONS 75 

The furniture bespake the day 

When Paul Jones did his share 
To drive the British fleet away 

In fear and dire despair. 



No other bodies did we find. 

Although we searched riglit well. 
And each of us the cause oyined 

The reason we could tell. 
The coward crew which manned the boat 

Had taken to the sea 
When icy storms the vessel smote 

W^itli dreadful cruelty. 

We found the vessel's log and read. 

She was the 'Polly Q,' 
And hailed from New York Port, it said, 

In seventeen eighty-two; 
And she was bound to old Bordeaux 

To fill her hold with wine. 
And in lier cargo down below 

Were silks and cottons fine. 

W'e had no mind to carry off 

Such cargo on the ice 
O'er ragged peaks and hollowed trough. 

We had no sledge device ; 
But up I spake and said we ought 

In decency to take 
The frozen dead and them allot 

A grave of Christian make. 

I laugh whene'er I think of how 

We tried to lift the male 
From his cold seat, and even now 

I laugh to tell the tale." 



76 CRADLED MOONS 

The old man paused again and roared, 
His body shook and swayed, 

"Ha, ha," he cried, "words can't record 
Tlie siglit that poor corpse made." 



He slapped his right knee, then his left, 

And then slapped both at once, 
He laughed until he was bereft 

Of breath and utterance. 
I waited for him to resume, 

Tlie children waited, too. 
Until he would again presume 

To start his tale anew. 



And soon again with nod and wink 

To me the old man spoke, 
"Ha, ha ! ho, ho ! what do you tliink 

Such laugliter would jirovoke .^ 
For he was frozen liard and fast. 

We pulled with might and main, 
And suddenly the old chair smashed 

Beneath the awful strain. 



The poor corpse fell upon the floor 

With a tremendous crash, 
And wlien he struck, into a score 

Of bits his limbs did smash. 
His arms and legs flew everywhere, 

His poor nose went askew. 
And for a while I do declare 

We broken up were, too. 



We let the scattered fragments lie. 

And ruefully essayed 
With tender hands and greatest care 

To lift the frozen maid. 



CRADLED MOONS 77 

We chopped her dresses from the floor, 

And gently raised lier high, 
And up the stairs and through the door 

We went with anxious sigh. 



We left the poor, old 'Polly Q,' 

Right glad was I for one 
To leave the craft, and all the crew 

Were glad their work was done. 
And soon we reached the rugged coast. 

Where, riding safe, was seen. 
With sails all furled, our pride and boast. 

The good ship 'Billows Queen.' 



We launched oirr boat and tenderly 

We laid our burden down, 
But spite our care I awkwardly 

A piece broke from her gown, 
For happening to turn around 

I spied two polar bears 
Approaching us with leap and bound 

To take us unawares. 



In haste we shoved off from the shore, 

And grabbed our oars again. 
For well we knew what was in store 

If we stayed on the main. 
We had no guns or such on board, 

And but a single knife. 
And every man the thought abhorred 

Of giving up his life. 

The bears rushed toward our launching place 

And with a roar and leap 
They tumbled in and gave us chase 

As we sped o'er the deep. 



78 CRADLED MOONS 

But, spite our speed, we could not cope 

With either hungry brute, 
We'd almost given up all hope, 

So swift was their pursuit. 



We saw their eyeballs flasli and glare. 

We saw their cruel teeth, 
W^e watched them with a resigned stare, 

And hardly dared to breathe. 
The foremost beast was but a rod 

Or two behind us, when 
I heard a crash, and cried, 'My God!' 

A swordfish rammed us then. 



The sword it barely grazed my ear, 

It lifted up our prow, 
I snatched a rope and spite my fear 

I tied it to the bow. 
The fish it struggled with its might 

To draw its sword-point out, 
And backward swam in rapid flight. 

We gave a lusty shout. 

P'or in its haste it drew us fast 

Straight towards the 'Billows Queen,' 
The bears in speed were both outclassed, 

'Twas easy to be seen. 
The men on board our valiant ship 

Had heard the noise we made. 
Amazed, they watched our rowboat skip. 

Their wonder they displayed. 

The poor fisli could not see the boat. 

And bumped into its side. 
So great its speed that when it smote 

The 'Billows Queen' it died. 



CRADLED MOONS 79 

With willing; hands men lent us aid 

To reach our good ship's deck, 
And gently raised the frozen maid 

We'd brousht off from the wreck. 



They carried her with softened tread 

Into the galley, where 
They laid lier down upon a bed 

Beside the fire's glare, 
And I was detailed from the men 

To watch and see that she 
Did not get burned and to tell when 

A-thawed slie seemed to be. 



They .filled a flagon to the brim 

From out the vessel's store 
To keep my spirits in good trim, 

I could not ask for more. 
The room was warm, and soon I fell 

Into a slumber deep, 
I must have dreamed, for with a yell 

I woke from out my sleep. 

I glanced towards wliere the maiden lay 

And by tlie fire's light 
I saw her move an arm away 

With just a motion slight. 
I scarce believed what my eyes saw, 

It could not be, I said. 
That she would flout Dame Nature's law 

And come back from the dead. 



I loudly called unto the crew, 

Who came upon the run. 
And they stood round and watched her, too, 

Aye, every mother's son, 



80 CRADLED MOONS 

And soon a leg she moved, and then 
We saw an eyelash wink. 

Ere long she moved an arm again, 
We knew not what to think. 



Tlien up there spake a sailpr bold. 

And said we ought to pour 
A glass of spirits down her hold, 

And then perhaps some more. 
We put some brandy in a glass, 

Enough for two good nips, 
And when we fed it to the lass 

She smiled and smacked her lips. 

She soon thawed out and seemed as well 

As any maid could be, 
And none the worse for what befell 

Her in the Arctic sea; 
And she could not believe that most 

Four-score year^ had flown by 
Since they were wrecked upon that coast 

Beneath the northern sky. 

She thought she'd only fell asleep 

Upon the cabin floor, 
And hoped to rise with the first peep 

Of daylight through tlie door. 
She told us of the dastard crew 

And of her father bold, 
Wliom we broke up into a few 

Odd thousand pieces, cold. 



The Captain in his gallantry 
Gave up his room to her. 

And all the crew did vie to see 
Which one she would prefer. 



CRADLED MOONS 81 

And though in years she was quite old, 

'Twas easily observed 
That Time its imprints did withhold, 

And left her well preserved. 

I was a stalwart, handsome lad, 

And soon I saw her eyes 
Were cast on me with glances glad 

With no thought of disguise. 
And though I was but twenty-three 

And she was ninety-eight, 
I loved her true, and she loved me. 

To marry was our fate. 

And when we got to Boston town 

W^e found a preacher good 
With book in hand and surplice gown, 

Who spliced us as he should, 
And oftentimes she sailed with me 

Upon the 'Billows Queen,' 
We weathered many a storm and sea, 

And life was all serene. 

Full forty years we happy were. 

And then she up and- died, 
While ever since I have mourned her, — 

She was my joy and pride. 
Although she was not very young, 

She never looked her age, 
But she knew how to hold her tongue 

And save mv seaman's wage. 



And now, my hearty lads, I've done, 
My yarn is finished quite. 

So run along in play and fun 
And frolic in delight." 



82 CRADLED MOONS 

The old man rose upon his cane. 

And with another wink 
To me he said, "It looks like rain, 

The wind is east, I think." 

And as he started off to go, 

A child's voice piped, "I wish 
The old man had a let us know 
What they did with the fish." 
And even I would like to learn 
If swordfish steak was seen 
Upon the mess-cloth near the stern 
Of the good ship "Billows Queen." 



TO AN OLD, OLD BOOK 

To what strange chance, thou sere and yellow book. 

Am I indebted for thy presence here.^ 

Who brought thee forth from thy obscurity 

And bade the ribald present pause and look 

Upon the confined wisdom of a year 

Long since engulfed in the Eternity ? 

Thou'rt but a link in the forged chain of Time 
Which fetters cycles and an eon's years, 
Methink'st thy hoop hath welded been of gold? 
And binds thy past to present days of mine, 
Nor weights my soul with joyless, doleful fears. 
Thy wisdom taught cannot for aye grow old. 



CRADLED MOONS 83 



THE SONG OF THE RUSHING FLOOD 

I liave burst tlie bonds of my gaoler, Man, 

I, the captive that was, am free, 
Untrammelled I surge, and I laugh at his plan 

To hold me by dam or levee; 
I uproot and crush everything in the rush 

Of my waters as onward they flow, 
And I laugh to behold my jailor of old 

As he races to hill and plateau ! 

jNIan has bound me long in the grip of his hand, 

On my bosom his white fleets I bore, 
I have ground his corn, I illumined his land, 

And for nauglit have I garnered his store ; 
But now I am freed, each bound is a reed. 

To me and the power I own, 
I mine and tear down every city and town. 
And I chortle when man I dethrone ! 

My comrades in arms are Tornado and Flame, 

And Famine tracks close on our heels, 
P'or the miscliief we do man himself is to blame^ 

The wood-lands he foolishly peels ; 
For man is a fool, and he dams me by rule. 

He builds on the edge of my realm. 
And he never can learn to prepare ere I tunj 

And scourge with my might, and o'erwlielm '. 

Oh, I come with a rush and a roar and bound, 

No power can stay nor defy. 
And lest weakling man seeks the rise of the ground, 

He and his kind must die ! 
t For I am the Flood, and my waters are blood. 

They boil with the fevers of rage. 
Oh, I mock and I jeer at man's wliimpering fear 

Wlien I'm out of mv bound and gauge! 



84 CRADLED MOONS 

OUT OF THE DEPTHS 
(De Profundis) 

Out of the depths comes a voice I liear calling, 

Calling "Young man, young man," 
Soft on my ear are its grave accents falling, 

Ever "Young man, young man, 

The years are unfolding 

The life you are moulding, 
What is it, young man, to be? 

Will you fashion your clay 

In a haphazard way, 
Or build for eternity, 
Or build for eternity?" 

Out of the depths comes a voice I hear saying, 

Saying, "Young man, young man," 
A voice that reproaches, in language inveighing, 

"Why do you lag, young man? 

The world is demanding 

The life you're commanding, 
The life that you waste away. 

There's no need for droning 

With strength that you're owning, 
Necessity cries to-day. 
Necessity cries to-day." 

Out of the depths comes a voice that is pleading, 

Pleading, "Young man, young man, 
Your Master entreats and you should be heeding. 

You must obey, young man. 

In each undertaking 

Your history's making. 
Build for the future to see. 

For life is beginning. 

Your spurs you are winning," 
Oh thus spak<s the voice to me. 
Oh thus spake the voice to me. 



CRADLED MOONS 85 



TO THE FAIR UNKNQWN 

To the fair unknown! Tliese lines I dedicate, 

And if the gods of chance are very kind 
And be at all towards nae compassionate, 

Perchance they may create some gentle wind 
Which will, like balmy zephyrs from the soutli, 

Bearing in their soft embrace the warm sun's kiss, 
Whisper the words I fain would speak by mouth 

To her, my only hope of earthly bliss. 

It matters not that I as yet have never 

Gazed with enraptured eyes upon her face. 
My soul is filled with love which lives forever, 

And none but she my throne of love will grace. 
I see her in the flowers of the wildwood, 

As pure as they when bathed in summer dew. 
The charm and grace of sweet, unspotted childhood 

Are vet unsullied in mv mental view. 



It matters not that I have never listened 

To her sweet voice outpouring on the air, 
For every song that ever love has christened 

Creates a vision of my lady fair. 
I hear her in the rippling, trilling water 

That laughs and dances in yon meadow brook. 
And often have I in tlie greenwood sought her. 

Deceived by song birds in some hidden nook. 

I have reared to her an altar of devotion. 
And inscribed it as Athenians of old 

To the one who claims my loftiest emotion. 
And is worthv of love's frankincense and a;old. 



86 CRADLED MOONS 

And I'm waiting for some mighty Paul of learning 
To declare the one that I would here enthrone, 

To declare the love that in my heart is burning 
To the fairest of tlie fair who's still unknown. 



WHO IS CONTENT? 

Who is content? Surely not I. 

My surging soul seems to command 
That I with Pegasus should fly 

And reach some liigh and noble land 
Where mountains rise and torrents swell, 

Where giants build and nought is small, 
Where genii of learning dwell. 

Where thought is miglit, and love is all. 

Who is content? Not he who holds 

That God intended man to tear 
Aside the veil which He enfolds 

Around each blessing He would share. 
Who holds that man was born to reign 

O'er earth supreme, by God's decree, 
And that he has the strength to gain 

Dominion over land and sea. 

Who is content? Not he who flies 

On yonder graceful, bird-like wings, 
Who mounts and rises towards the skies, 

And in exultant triumph sings, 
His conquest of the boundless air 

Contents him not ; his liope is set 
On goals which only reckless dare. 

The unattainable as vet. 



CRADLED MOONS 87 

Who is content? Not those who seek 

The germs of pestilence and death, 
Which rob tlie bloom from manhood's cheek, 

And steal away the infant's breath. 
Contentment never will be theirs 

Until disease and mortal pain 
And miseries to which we're heirs 

Are all dispelled and none remain. 

Who is content? The sluggard? Yes, 

The man who loves his rest and ease, 
The man who yearns not to possess 

The things which do the mighty please. 
The man who leans and does not lift, 

The man who is indifferent. 
The man who with the tide doth drift, 

The sluggard? Yes, — he is content. 



HAPPINESS 

Search the budding flower. 

Pluck the tender leaf. 

Steal a quiet hour 

From your tears and grief. 

Roam the dales and mountains, 

Greet the radiant dawn, 

Sip at Nature's fountains 

and 
Happiness is born. 

Tear the fragrant grasses. 
Find their scented source. 



88 CRADLED MOONS 

Kiss the lips of lasses. 
Love brings no remorse. 
Mask the face of sorrow. 
Laugh dull care to scorn, 
Shed your tears to-morrow, 

and 
Happiness is born. 



THE "CLOSED-INS" 

Doomed to be 'compassed by four walls, 
While the whole world goes singing and free, 
To respond in your soul to the earth calls 
That Nature is sending to thee ; 
To feel in your heart a desire 
To burst every barrier down, 
To sacrifice Hope on a pyre. 
To be told you are earning a crown ; , 

Hell has nothing like this. 

To see all there is in a vision 
Restricted and cabined by fate, 
To know every outline's precision 
Till your soul is just burning with hate; 
To die every night and recover 

When the sun bursts through chinks in the blind. 
To be of aesthetics a lover. 
Yet meeting but little refined: 
Hell is Heaven to this. 

To know that the morrow will bring back 
The same that it brought you to-day, 
To hunger, and yet not for bread lack, 
To doubt, while your tongue tries to pray; 



CRADLED MOONS 89 

To envy, yet knowing how foolisli 
Is envy when it cannot gain, 
To smile when you want to be mulisli. 
To suffer and yet deny pain. 
Hell is gladness to this. 



Where, friend, is the joy of the "closed-in"? 
Pray tell this old pessimist bard, 
A secret is safe when reposed in 
A heart that holds all in regard ; 
Mayhap that there's joy just in living, 
A part of the Infinite's scheme, , 

And God is sustaining and giving 
Much more than we healthy folks dream. 
Hell has no part in this. 



TO A FALLEN TREE 

O thou grand monarch of the spacious wood. 
Whose towering head o'er-topped thy brother trees. 
Whose regal crown of foliage once stood 
And first caught secrets of the whispering breeze; 
Why didst thou fall and to what fault is due 
Thy present state; now brother to the clod 
Art thou indeed, whom once the forests knew 
As king supreme and recognized as lord. 

Did wintry winds or lightning's cruel stroke 

Reveal thy heart and humble thee to earth, 

Or Nature's sport when she the stillness woke 

With earthquake laughter from her boiy^dless mirth, 

Or was it Time whose conquering scythe doth mow 

The aged down, nor stops to answer why, 

But seeks its pleasures with the young that grow 

With naught but youth and self to gratify.'' 



90 CRADLED MOONS 

Oh, sleep in peace, thou fallen sovereign, 
Thy kingdom lives, thy children rule the vale. 
Thy rest is earned and ne'er wilt thou again 
Be sport for storms nor bend with howling gale ; 
May clinging moss and gently creeping vine 
Enshroud thy form and hide thy limbs from view, 
And build thy crypt from Nature's own design 
For her dead kings ; it is indeed thv due. 



THE BECKONING HILLS 

On a motto that hangs by my desk I can read 

That contentment is what men should learn. 
For the things wliich we have are all that we need, 

And 'tis vain for us mortals to yearn. 
But when I gaze through my window and see 

The glories of Nature as shown 
In the range of blue hills which beckon to me^ 

My hop§s of contentment have flown. 

When I'm cramped 'twixt four walls there is no peace 
of mind, 

For memory leads me a chase, 
Over hilltops and crags which oft I have climbed 

'Midst those hills wliose blue outlines T trace. 
To my ears they're as still as the silence of death. 

Yet my heart seems to burst with the sound 
Of the call that they make, and the winds waft a breath 

Of the freedom which there doth abound. 

What rhythmical verse, what outburst of song 

Which a poet might pen, can compare 
With the voice of the hills as they cry "Come along, 

O poet, and breathe in our air?" 



CRADLED MOONS 91 

I, for one, cannot liear that call of the wild, 

And find in contentment a tlieme, 
Nor can I remain and be reconciled, 

And only of such freedom dream. 

I must up and away, those hills beckon to me, 

I yearn for my pinnacled nests 
Higli up in their tops, overlooking the sea, 

My soul at restraint now protests. 
No mottoes I need to teach me content, 

I spurn such a word, wlien behind 
The walls of a house, for these hills represent 

The peace that my nature would find. 



THE BLUE HILLS OF MILTON 

I have travelled o'er our country 

Full many thousand miles, 
I have seen the Rocky INIountains, 

And New Hampshire's stony piles ; 
But for majesty and grandeur 

There's none appeals to me 
Like the great Blue Hills of Milton, 

Near Boston by the sea. 

They are not so very lofty, 

But from their heights I've seen 
God's rich country round about me, 

A paradise, I ween. 
Yon stone and wood reared city, 

Capped with its golden dome, 
Stands forth in all its splendor, 

It is tlie Nation's liome. 



92 CRADLED MOONS 



And snug nestling in the valley, 

Reflecting Heaven's blue, 
Are two lakes of placid water, 

They're smiling up at you. 
While betwixt you and the city 

There runs a silver thread, 
'Tis Neponset's waters flowing 

From out their fountain head. 



Over yonder in the distance 

Appalachian Mounts rise high; 
In the eastward, harbor beacons 

Stand out against the sky. 
You can count for miles around you 

Church spires by the score, 
And for varied views of Nature 

You could not ask for more. 



But the sight of all these beauties 

Is not so much to me 
As the wonders of Creation 

And Nature's mystery. 
The thought of God's infinitude 

Makes finite man seem small, 
As I contemplate His hand-work 

And think that He made all. 



He caused all these mighty rock hills 

To rise from out the plain, 
And in His bounteous goodness 

He made them for man's gain. 
As the years and ages roll by 

These hills shall surely stand 
A monument to His greatness, 

A blessing to our land. 



CRADLED IMOONS 93 

Oh, I've travelled o'er this country, 

Full many thousand miles, 
I have seen the Rocky Mountains, 

And New Hampshire's stony piles; 
But for majesty and grandeur 

There's none appeals to me 
Like the great Blue Hills of Milton, 

Near Boston bv the sea. 



ON CHICx\TAWBUT HILL 



On Chicatawbut Hill I climbed. 

On Chicatawbut Hill, 
Upon its crest sweet verse I rhymed 

Responsive to the thrill 
Of Nature's works which all around 

Lay stretched before my gaze. 
For, as I looked, again I found 

The charms of bygone days. 



I saw the hills of Milton plain 

From Chicatawbut Hill, 
And they recalled to me again 

The days I roamed at will; 
I used tp tramp the whole range o'er 

When I was but a lad, 
Since then old Time has closed youth's door, 

And memories make me sad. 



94 CRADLED MOONS 



I saw the great stone water tower 

From Chicatawbut Hill, 
The quarries and the crags that lower 

And fearsome thoughts instil. 
I've sat upon the crag-top's height 

Full many and many a time, 
And oft exclaimed in glad delight 

O'er views which were sublime. 



I saw the distant ocean's bay , 

From Chicatawbut Hill, 
And wliite-winged boats sped on their way 

To seas of good or ill. 
I thought that sometime I must sail 

On unknown seas, somewhere, 
My craft must weather storm and gale, 

And I its fate must share. 



I saw the calm, blue sky aloft 

From Chicatawbut Hill, 
A few white fleecy clouds, as soft 

As swansdown, rested still; 
It seemed as if God's artist, sly. 

Had dipped liis brush in white 
And wiped it out upon the sky 

Ere toning shades of lights 



I saw a blue- jay flying fast 

On Chicatawbut Hill, 
I watched liim close as he flew past, 

His call was harsh and shrill, 
Tliat cry alone, of all, to me 

Discordant seemed that day, 
And I was ))leased indeed to see 

That blue-jay fly away. 



CRADLED MOONS 95 

If I could rhyme all joys I found 

On Chicatawbut Hill, 
My verse would spread the earth around 

And every corner fill ; 
But mayhap, friend, you'll climb its height. 

And then take up your quill, 
Where I've left off", begin to write 

On Chicatawbut Hill. 



THE GHOST OF THE CRAGS 

'Midst the wild and open country scarce without the 

city's bound, 
Rising high above the level are the hills of INIilton found. 
Rich in legend, rich in story, rich in scenic beauty 

grand, 
Marvellous beyond description, overtopping all the land. 

Capped with scrubby oak and hemlock, creviced by a 

hundred brooks. 
Cleft with walls of solid granite hiding many sylvan 

nooks, 
Pleasant valleys 'twixt the hill-crests, views unrivalled 

of the sea. 
Nature's altars, where I worsliip, such are these Blue 

Hills to me. 

Over towards the eastern portion are the Crags of which 

I write, 
Rising sheer from out the valley, fearful in their depth 

and height. 
Railed with but a bar of iron, just a mockery it seems. 
As if man, poor ])uny mortal, could defy old Nature's 

schemes. 



96 CRADLED MOONS 

Oft I wander to the crag top, where my thoughts can, 

midisturbed, 
Come and go with rhythmic motion, where my mind is 

not perturbed, 
And ensconced within a cradle made by shelving rocks 

and grass. 
There I rest and view God's country, there the hours 

pleasant pass. 



One fine day in balmy June time, with my book and 

pencil I 
Climbed the rough and rugged footpath to my fav'rite 

haunt on high. 
And 'twixt reading, thinking, writing, hours passed and 

soon the sun 
Sank behind the great hill's tower, for the day was 

almost done. 



With a sigli I rose and gathered book and cap within 

my liand. 
And prepared to journey homeward, lotli to follow 

Time's command. 
When, from out the dark'ning shadows of a huge, sharp 

, balanced stone. 
Rose a figure grim and savage, and I heard an eerie 

moan. 



Ill my fright I stood and trembled, daring not to move 
or speak, 

Wild-eyed, staring, whilst the shadows longer grew of 
ev'ry peak, 

And the vision viewed me calmly, deigning not to notice 
fear. 

Which I own I showed a-plenty, with that awful pres- 
ence near. 



CRADLED MOONS 97 



Still I noted, spite my tremor, that ^the form which 

brazen stood 
Close before me was a native of some wild, unbroken 

wood. 
Painted cheeks, bedecked with feathers, folded arms, 

impassioned mien, 
Just like pictures which in childhood I had loved and 

often seen. 



INIust'ring courage in the twilight, I at last took lieart 

and spoke 
Words like these, "Who are you stranger? Speak, your 

presence doth provoke ; 
Wouldst thou slay a fellow mortal, harmless, weak and 

quite alone ? 
Let me pass, nor stay my going," tlms I spake with 

anxious tone. 



With his piercing eye fixed on me, hideous, uncanny, 

quite. 
Stood he there as if unmindful of my seeming fearful 

plight, 
Then I heard a voice whicli sounded like the swisli of 

rushing wind. 
Soft and musical and soothing, lulling fears I had in 

mind. 



Witli the first calm uttered sentence I at once again took 

heart, 
For the spectre whicli stood near me scarcely made a 

move or start, 
But his voice I heard distinctly, sad it sounded to my 

ears, 
Yet so calm and withal quiet that it soothed my doubt- 
• ing fears. 



98 CRADLED MOONS 



"Listen, Pale-Fpce, to my story," were the words that 

greeted me, 
"Listen, fear thou not nor falter from the form of 

Ochmulgee ; 
I was once a chieftain mighty of the Narragansetts 

brave, 
And I ruled these hills and valleys, here my wigwam 

shelter gave. 



Long before your tribe of white men entered into yon- 
der bay. 

Here I lived and hunted daily, here the gentle deer did 
slay, 

Over where von sun is sinking, there uj^on the highest 
hill. 

Oft I worshipped the Great Spirit, there I tried my 
hunter's skill. 



Many were the moons which slowly rose to view and 

died away, 
While I led the tribe of warriors to the chase and to the 

fray, 
Ere these things wliich did befall me, things which I 

will now relate, 
Of Kenabeek, called the Serpent, coward, thief and 

reprobate. 



I had maids and squaws in plenty, but my heart was 

set upon 
Bounding Brook, a gentle maiden whom I wooed and 

whom I won; 
Glad was she to join my wigwam, dress the product of 

my chase, 
Build my fire, fill my pipe-bowl, fairest was she of our 

race. 



CRADLED MOONS 99 



But one day the wicked^ lying Kenabeek came gliding 

round 
While I hunted through yon valley, and alone the 

maiden found, 
And he tried to steal her from me, steal my gentle 

Bounding Brook, 
Force her to forsake and leave me, but the maiden he 

mistook. 



Up slie flew and like a deer sped to the spot where I 

had gone. 
And she told me all Kenabeek's lying tongue had spoke 

upon. 
How the blood surged to my temples, how my heart was 

filled with liate. 
How I longed to crush the Serpent, scalp the lock upon 

his pate. 



With my tomahawk I liastened, gave the lying coward 

chase, • 
And he climbed these hills and valleys, but I caught 

him in this place ; 
Here we fought upon this crag-top, here we strove with 

might and main. 
Blood gushed forth like spouting water, neither seemed 

to mind the pain. 



Suddenly, with wlioop of triumpli, I caught hold of 

Kenabeek, 
And my waning strength I mustered, threw him o'er this 

mighty peak, 
And I watched liim as lie tumbled into the great deeps 

below 
Till I saw him dead and lying where yon spring doth 

ever flow. 



100 CRADLED MOONS 



Fain would I liave then arisen, but the poison on the 
dart 

With which lie had pierced my vitals had already reached 
my heart, 

So I sang my death-song slowly here behind this bal- 
anced stone, 

Like a brave and noble warrior, without murmur, with- 
out groan. 



Ere my eyelids closed forever Bounding Brook had 

searched and found 
Where I lay, and where you rested, there my hurts she 

gently bound, 
Seated on the ground beside me, knowing that I soon 

must go 
To the land of all my fathers, yet her grief she did not 

show. 



Soon my spirit left the body, and beneath where we now 
stand, 

In a cave-like hole she placed me, covered me with earth 
and sand, 

And my spirit hovered near her, loth to leave my Bound- 
ing Brook, 

But the Manitou had called me, called, and so my leave 
I took. 



When the Great and Noble Spirit heard my tale and 
how I slew 

Kenabeek, the lying serpent, and his body down there 
threw. 

Pleased He was and gave permission that I might re- 
visit here 

This fair spot as when I left it; when the moons shall 
mark each year. 



CRADLED MOONS 101 



So to-day you see mC;, Pale-Face, I, the great chief 

OchmulgeC;, 
And I would you'd tell your people what's been told you 

about me, 
Tell them not to move a single stone from off this lofty 

mound, 
Tell them, Pale-Face, of my story, say that this is 

liallowed ground. 



Tell them that this pile of granite is a monument to me, 
That it marks the place where Death came and laid 

hold of Ochmulgee, 
Tell them this, and tell them truly,— Hark ! I hear the 

Great Chief's cry, 
I must go, farewell, O Pale-Face, tell my tale and do 

not lie." 



In a twinkling of an eyelasli he was gone, I was alone. 
And the faint tints of the twilight proved that day was 

almost gone. 
Wondering and deeply thoughtful, I sought out my 

downward road. 
And just as the stars came shining I approached my 

own abode. 



To my study I then hastened, and I wrote this lengthy 

tale 
So the children of the future will respect tliat hill and 

vale. 
Did just what the spectre bade me, not a word did I 

omit. 
And I've told my story truly, every detail, every bit. 



102 CRADLED MOONS 



If you doubt this story, neighbor, go and see this mighty 

rock, 
Climb its heights and view the country, listen to the 

breezes talk. 
Go and drink the pure, sweet water of the spring within 

the glen. 
And if once you go, O neighbor, I am sure you'll go 

again. 



THE SPIRIT BOUND 



I called to my soul in the midnight hour 

When the babel of tongues had ceased. 

And I thought that my soul was free, 

For I sought the strength that comes from power 

Born of the Infinite,— released 

Through the Spirit Voice to me. 

"Bound!" was the thought-flash coming back 
Like the curse of a hope that's dead, 
Like a soundless prayer of fear ; 
Bound to the world and its sins, alack ! 
Bound to the Self, by the Self misled. 
And ruled from a higher sphere. 

Bound to the past with its thoughts of doubt, 

Bound ,to my fears with hooks of steel 

Grappled to finite rings ; 

Bound to regrets and shame, without 

A hope save my. Better Self's appeal 

To the God of eternal things. 



CRADLED MOONS 103 



THE FIRST CALL 

I was wearied to-night from my quest of gold 

In my slavish, routine life, 
And I called from the Silences untold 

The Spirit whose arts were manifold 
To surcease troubles rife; 
When lo! from the deepest wells, behold, 

Came a spirit called Love to my world of strife, 
While a restful peace my heart consoled, 

And it's always near when my arms enfold 
Mv children and my wife. 



THE SOUNDING BOARD 

I stood by the water's edge, and the golden moon' 
Cast a yellow glaze on the ocean's breast. 
And the sea and the moon were one. 
While the rhythmic surf with its rage subduen 
Since a recent storm, with the sands caressed. 
And I with the world was done. 

For the kissing surf with its restless sound 

Awakened each sleeping spirit tone 

That sings in a poet's soul, " 

Then the whole world sang, and the full moon, round, 

Was the sounding-board in the Great Unknown, 

Where Poetry has its goal. 



104 CRADLED MOONS 



THE SHADOW MEN 

I called to the Past; 
In the solemn hour of the mist-grey morn, 
To the murk-filled caves of my nearer soul 

I called again, 
When lo ! like a strain of music borne 
On the wafted breeze, and with less control, 

Came Shadow Men. 

Like clouds amassed; 
Shadows of past years gone for aye, 
Charnel-mould ghosts with their shrouds unbound, 

They brought me these ; 
My childhood joys, my youth, my down-lipped day, 
Strong manhood's prime, and in them all I found 

Sweet memories. 



HIS SOUL FLOWERS 

God planted the seed. He nourished the soil. 

Each soul is a flower of Love, 
Go gather the blooms, though you struggle and toil 

In valley or mountains above ; 
Each flower reveals a purposeful plan, 

Eacli petal is fashioned with care, 
The Soul of the Sower has blossomed in Man, 

His Immortal Spirit is there. 



CRADLED MOONS 105 

IN THE SILENT REACHES OF MY SOUL 

Oh, deep in the shadowy vales that lie 

In the silent reaches of my soul, 

In thy solitudes, O my soul, 

Live the wraiths of the Hopes of the self that I 

Know as myself, yet unknown to the whole 

Of the doubting, shallow world. 

And when, in my nature's wearied hours, 

I seek in an introspective mood 

Those cloistered haunts for my spirit's food. 

Come those wraiths at my call with their God-born 

powers. 
And I am a god in a realm of good, 
Unknown to a finite world. 



THE SPIRIT OF MIRTH 

There's a merry elf in my hidden self, 

A sprite with a manner droll. 
And he sings at times with his ribald rhymes 

In the deeps of the Poet's soul, 
When the skies are black and when fears attack. 

When the spirits of Doubt possess, 
Comes tliis elf to me with his singing glee. 

And I echo his merriness. 
With his saucy quips, and his whispering lips. 

And his eye with a spit of flame, 
He domineers, and despite my years 

My pen puts sense to shame. 
But a rounded soul needs a spirit droll. 

And I with a world to bear. 
Rejoice the while in his mirthful style, 

And would of my pleasures share. 



106 CRADLED MOOXS 



SLUMBERING YESTERDAYS 

Awaken them not, tliose sweet days of tlie past, 

Those days of the long, long ago, 
Let them sleep now in peace, away from the blast 

And blight of my cold winter's snow; 
Let the form of my youth be caressed in their arms, 

Let them smile in their dreams so free. 
For if tliey should awake, then youth's sweetest charms 

Would be flown, and leave — only me. 

Awaken them not, tliose dear days I have lost, 

Those days which do now seem sublime. 
Let them sleep sound and warm, secure from tlie frost, 

And safe in the arms of old Time; 
Let the blustering winds and the lean wolf's fierce cry 

Be Imshed till their slumber is done ; 
Let the soft summer breeze croon a sweet lullaby, 

And bring them a kiss from the sun. 

Awaken them not, those briglit days that are gone, 

Those days which I tlien valued not. 
When I first saw the gleam of their roseate dawn, 

Nor gave to their passing much thought ; 
Let them sleep on and on, I have not long to live. 

Why waken the past from its rest? 
Tlie present I own, and the future will give 

Surcease to remorse, manifest. 



CRADLED MOONS 107 



THE SADDEST TIME— AUTUMN 

Tlie saddest time of all the year is now, 

The dying leaves though clothed with brilliant hue 
Bespeak the time when I my head must bow 

And hear the voice which sayeth, "Youth is through. 
The sighing winds wliich bare the quivering limb 

Are messengers to me of wintry days 
Which are to come, and seem to croon a hymn 
Like that old song so potent in its praise: 
"Now the day is over, 
Night is drawing nigh. 
Shadows of the ev'ning 
Steal across the sky." 

Tlie asters and the goldenrod, 

And here and there a struggling bloom I see, 
The last tribute of Summer to her god 

Ere she assumes Death's fearsome livery. 
They cause me pain where pleasure they would give, 

I see my night approach, I know full well 
That I on earth cannot forever live, 

I, too, must sleep as that sweet song doth tell: 
"Now the darkness gathers, 
Stars begin to peep. 
Birds and beasts and flowers 
Soon will be asleep." 



108 CRADLED MOON.^ 

MY STUDY 

Four walls papered blue, 
Striped with tints of doubtful hue, 
Compass in my study. 

One chair, style unknown, 
Desk and table all give tone 
To my humble study. 

One case filled with books, 
Fastened to the wall with hooks, 
College in my study. 

One French full-glazed door. 
Open to an enrailed floor, 
Beautifies my study. 

One view unsurpassed. 
Hills and dales and woodlands vast, 
Nature in my study. 

One heart God-inspired, 
All that is for me required 
To complete my study. 



THE SPIDER 

Mountains of gold, glittering gold, 

Tempting the woman, cruel and bold, 

Fool that man was (though little to blame. 

If our parents were fools, we might be the same) ; 

Voice of the siren, luring him on 

Into the web like a fly to be shorn, 

P'orm of a woman almost divine, 



CRADLED MOONS 109 

Soul of a devil lurking in wine; 

Prodigal spendthrift, little he knew 

That money and Iqve each other espew: 

What though the spider is loathsome, unclean, 

(Even a spider's web glitters like sheen 

When kissed by the sun and the cool morning dew. 

And the spider itself is hidden from view). 

For the fool's but a fool, like the moth as it flings 

Itself in the flame where it singes its wings. 

And the spider's a fiend, though clothed in disguise, 

The she-devil's soul looks out of its eyes, 

And the fool never guessed that money and pelf 

Attracted the woman and not he himself. 

That when they were gone, without tear, without sigh, 

She'd cast him aside like the shell of a fly 

Which the spider ejects from its glimmering nest, 

For the fool's but a fool, and the spider's a pest. 



THE BLUE WAKE 

As the blood-red sun sank in the western sky 

O'er sultry, summer sea, 
And the hazy mists of the night crept nigh 

Encroaching, silently, 
I sat by the rail of a schooner's bow 

And watched a towering ship, 
A queen of the sea, with her massive prow 

Proud set for an eastward trip. 

And her decks were black with a merry throng, 

A happy, singing crowd. 
So calm was the sea that I heard their song 

And joyful noises loud^ 



110 CRADLED MOONS 

And I waved my hand as the ship sped by, 

A few waved back at me, 
But my heart was heavy, I knew not why, 

That evening on the sea. 



As the ship sailed by with its rings of smoke 

Marked cloud-like far astern, 
I could hear the hoarse throat of a fog-horn, croak 

In steady numbered turn; 
I have seen strange sights, but the strangest seen 

In my sailings on the deep, 
Was the blue-tinged wake of that ocean-queen, 

Not white from the screw's bold sweep. 

And the blue-frothed wake on that summer night 

Reflected the ruddy gleams 
Of the blood-red sun, and that eerie sight 

Still liaunts me in my dreams ; 
Then I called to tfie men of the schooner's crew. 

And I pointed to the wake, 
And I asked them why that froth was blue. 

To a man I saw them quake ! 

Then the mate upspake in a solemn tone, 

His eyes with fear aglow, 
"Yon ship is doomed, ere the niglit has flown 

She lies in depths below; 
For sailors know when the mermaids glean 

The white from a foaming wake, 
'Tis used as a fringe for its lustrous sheen 

On bridal gowns they make. 

And the ship they choose to rob of the foam 

That gleams so white and fair 
On its glistening wake, is chosen as liome 

For some sea-bridal pair ; 



CRADLED. MOONS 111 

And the ghosts of the men who are lost on board 
• Each craft that meets such doom, 
Must dance at the revels they afford 
For the mermaid bride and groom. 

'Tis a sailor's yarn, but its truth, I know, 

And proved full many times, 
Ere the sun shall rise with the morning glow 

The Sea-Nymph's wedding chimes 
Shall call from the deep, and yon vessel is lost; 

Mark me!" said the sailor bold, 
" 'Tis an awful price that such weddings cost, 
Yet this is the doom foretold !" 

Then I looked again at the noble ship 

Now sailing far away. 
And I saw tlie mists of the fog engrip 

And close around their prey ; 
And the rising wind from the east brought back 

The sound of revelry, 
But we shifted sail on the lee-shore tack 

And ran for the nearest quay. 



Oh, that awful night on that Irish coast, 

'Twas a night of misery. 
When that proud, proud ship with its mighty host 

Was lost in the raging sea ; 
And they tell a tale how the war craft smote 

A hole in her mighty prow. 
How there was not time for to man a boat. 

She sank like a rotted scow. 



Then I tliouglit of tliat bronzed old seaman's tale, 

Alas ! my friends, too true. 
And the prophecy at the schooner's rail 

Of the vessel's wake, tinged blue; 



112 CRADLED MOONS 

And I wondered, too, if some mermaid bride 

Wore a veil of whited foam, 
If she danced with tlie ghosts of the men who died 

To furnisli her a liome. 



MY SWEETHEART'S EYES 

Beautiful, laughing eyes of brown, 

Filling my soul with ecstasy. 
Truly my sweetheart's regal crown. 

Rivaling the gentle euphrasy. 

Softly they search me through and through, 

Asking this question earnestly. 
Tell me, fond heart, art thou still true, 

Dost thou still love me fervently? 

Beautiful, laughing eyes of brown. 
Thy seemly beauties are to me 

E'en when in sorrow looking down 

More glorious than the deep blue sea. 

Deeper in love than ocean's deep. 
Captive they hold me, still I'm free 

To live in love which I can keep 
Ever my own eternally. 



CRADLED MOONS 113 



FATHER 

Happy the man who bears that holy name, 

Nor lives for self; who treasures children's love 

Beyond all else ; whose glory 'tis to claim 

That sacred trust, the gift of God above; 

Whose toiling hours are gladdened by the kiss 

Of baby lips wlien days begin and close, 

Who learns in truth that man's paternal bliss 

Is youth renewed through that which youth bestows. 

His life brings joy, though children presage care, 
And worried brow oft marks him amongst men, 
Though sorrows come and Time steals from its lair 
And drags his loved ones to its worldly den; 
His greatest joy, — sublime when understood. 
Is giving life, sustaining it, and this 
Conformable to God, whose Fatherhood 
He but reflects ; — his life a genesis. 



IT WOULD BE NICE 

To Harold 

In a musing frame of mind. 
Half in earnest, half inclined 
To indulge in quiet jest 
(Which befits my nature best). 
Softly I in accents mild 
Called unto my eldest child, 
Who, with shout of boyish glee, 
Came and perched upon my knee. 



114 CRADLED MOONS 

Almost six years have flown by 
Since tliat first and lusty cry 
Whicli announced unto tlie morn 
That another soul was born. 
When tlie Infinite, Divine, 
Blest me with this boy of mine, 
And that time in memory's sway 
Seems to me like vesterdav. 



And those eyes, both large and brown. 
Question me as I look down, 
Wondering wliat I will say, 
WHiy I called them from their play. 
Oh, tliey know not what I see 
In their depths of purity, 
I can see the mother's smile 
Reproduced in them awhile. 



Scarcely conscious that I spoke. 

For those eyes strange thoughts awoke, 

I this question asked him now. 

As I stroked his noble brow: 

"Tell me, little brown-eyed lad, 

If another child we had 

As a playmate for you here. 

Would vou like a sister dear?" 



Not a second did he wait, 

Nor. the least bit hesitate, 

Like a flash upon a wire 

Came tliis voice of Love's desire, 

And it seemed as though it stole 

From my breast and inner soul 

The same thought whicli came to me 

As he climbed upon my knee. 



CRADLED MOONS 115 

"It would be nice," he sweetly .said, 
A sublime light his fac<^ o'erspread, 
"If I could have my mamma dear 
When slie was just a girlie here, 
I'd like it awf'lly, awf'lly well, 
I'm sure I would," and I could tell 
By that sweet, gentle, loving tone 
Deceit to him is yet unknown. 

Then I kissed this little elf. 

Mimic of my better self, 

Bade him run out-doors and play 

With his brother bright and" gay. 

And I heard the mother croon 

To her babe a restful tune. 

And though God lias blest me thrice, 

I think myself, — it would be nice. 



I WANT TO BE SIDE OF PAPA 

To Milton 

"I want to be side of Papa," 

The cry of my infant boy. 
His heart but echoed his lisping. 

His eyes beamed forth their joy. 

"I want to be side of Papa." 

'Tis strange how memories cling. 

To the words our children utter 
Ere they like birds take wing. 



116 CRADLED MOONS 

"I want to be side of Papa," 
God bless you, my sweet child, 

On my knees each night I pray Him 
To keep you undefiled. 



"I want to be side of Papa," 
That cry finds lodgment here 

As my timorous, faltering spirit 
Cries out to God so near. 

"I want to be side of Papa," 

And I, in my small way, 
Can make my treasure quite happy, 

My baby of to-day. 

"I want to be side of Papa," 

My little boy knows not 
That the plaintive cry he utters 

Is with deep meaning fraught. 

"I want to be side of Papa," 

O you who have strayed from grace. 

Return to your Heavenly Father, 
Behold His loving face. 

"I want to be side of Papa," 
The selfsame cry He's heard 

From many a child of sorrow, 

Though couched in different word. 

And so, dear friends wlio have suffered. 
And troubled ways have trod. 

Take home to yourself my lesson 
And live more close to God. 



CRADLED MOONS 117 

A LITTLE OUTSTRETCHED HAND 

To Francis 

I'm sometimes very weary, 

And life at best seems vain. 
The future's dark and dreary, 

The cause I can't explain; 
I'm in that giant's castle 

That Bunyan tells about, 
And held there as a vassal 

Of grim despair and doubt. 

Like pilgrims in his story, 

I've found a key of hope 
That leads me into glory, 

And gives me strength to cope 
With troubles beyond measure 

(I'm sure you'll understand). 
That key's my year-old treasure 

With dimpled, outstretched hand. 

When my day's work is ended. 

And I come home to rest, 
That little hand extended 

Drives trouble from my breast. 
Despair, with kindred allies. 

Is banished like the mist 
Which flies from wooded valleys 

When by the sunlight kissed. 

I take those dimpled fingers 

And press them to my heart. 
And in my thoughts there lingers 

The story they impart. 
When overwhelmed with sadness 

My memory I'll command 
To cheer my soul with gladness 

By baby's outstretched hand. 



118 CRADLED MOONS 

A WORTH WHILE THEME 
To Paul 

As I sat and pondered, dreaming, vainly searching, 
vainly scheming 
For a theme to make a verse and rhyme, 
I was conscious of a knocking on my study door, and 
talking 
Not at all in chord with rhythmic time. 

Just a baby's voice and chatter, just a baby's little 
patter 
On the threshold of my sanctum door. 
And I knew who there was waiting, who that racket was 
creating, 
Though my children now do number four. 

And despite my fancy's pleasure, which delights in quiet ^ 
measure 

Quite unreconciled to modern boys, 
I got up and very gently oped my door, and confidently 

Thought my frown would stop that dreadful noise. 

But I reckoned scarce with thinking, for that rascal, 
without shrinking. 
Gave a cry of honest, unfeigned joy. 
And both arms he threw around me, by my legs he 
tightly bound me, 
'Twas my darling youngest baby boy. 

With a smile his face was beaming, and his bright blue 
eyes a-gleaming 
Drove my frown and scowl away at once. 
Then I reached and gently placed him on my desk, and 
sat and faced him. 
And I gave to this thought utterance. 



CRADLED MOONS 119 

"Tell me, little light-haired fairy, where you got your 
graces airy? 
Why your eyes are blue instead of brown 
Like your brothers' who surround you, like your mother's 

when she found you ? 
Whence comes flaxen hair upon your crown? 



Not an answer did he make me, but a gurgle wliich 
meant "Take me 
Off this desk and hold me in your lap," 
Then I pressed him to my shoulder, kissed his cheek, and 
he, quite bolder, 
Tweaked my nose until I heard it snap. 



Next my moustache was the pleasure of this naughty 
little treasure. 
And that it was short I now gave thanks. 
Though perturbed by such an action on the part of my 
attraction. 
Quite courageously I bore his roguish pranks. 



Like a flash this thought came o'er me, here and now I 
had before me 
Greater theme than ever poet had. 
All the knowledge of the ages, all the wisdom of the 
sages 
Were embodied in this little lad. 



What can poets add to learning, other than a mere dis- 
cerning 
Of the things which they alone have fared? 
Here was one of God's own stories, blest with pristine 
beauty's glories. 
That made poetry a drivel when compared. 



120 CRADLED MOONS 

In this little blue-eyed scion lived the music heard in 
Zion, 
Here were dreams come true^ and manifest. 
Here the thoughts of the Creator, amplified by Time, 
and greater 
Than a poet ever yet expressed. 



In liis smile I saw the mother, in his laugli I heard each 
brother, 
In his eyes I saw myself a child again. 
And I saw his forbears living once again in liim, and 
giving 
Of their strength to prove him amongst men. 



And I saw the Future bending to his will, and wisdom 
lending, 
I could see him mount the steps of fame, 
I could see him laurel-reaping, wliile tlie sluggish ones 
were sleeping, 
I could hear the ages sing his name. 



So I thought that in this blessing was a theme well worth 
expressing. 
One the Infinite had kindly sent to me. 
So I penned tliis bit of rliyniing, quite unconscious of its 
timing 
Which boots not as you will well agree. 



And I pray that God, the Master, will protect him from 
disaster, 
That he'll earn and reap life's greatest joys. 
And I'll always be insisting, nobler themes are not ex- 
isting 
Than are found in loving girls and boys. 



CRADLED MOONS 121 

DISGRACE CORNER 

In our kitchen there's a corner that reserved for naughty 
boys. 

Who distract their patient mother and wlio make a lot 
of noise, 

There's a hard-backed wooden rocker with a seat I im- 
provised 

Out of rough, unfinished lumber which is very much 
despised. 

Oft it holds our eldest youngster, who at times can be 
so bad 

That you wonder if the tempter rules and dominates 
the lad. 

But an hour of meditation always drives that spirit 
hence, 

And a child was never sweeter than that boy in peni- 
tence. 



Eventide may find the corner holding fast my second 

son. 
Roguish, naughty, brown-eyed rascal, full of mischief, 

full of fun, 
He gets up from that old rocker 'most the same as 

when put there, 
Tliough repentant, planning ever mischief new to do 

and dare. 



Tlien the third boy (just a baby, three short years he's 

been on earth). 
Sometimes fills the rocker sadly, proving Adam in his 

birth. 
It's a lesson, comprehended, though forgotten soon, I 

fear. 
By this darling little cherub, who tliough naughty is a 

dear. 



122 CRADLED MOONS 

We've another boy tliat's growing, he's not old enough 

to sit 
In that chair, though oft I'm thinking he deserves to 

every bit, 
Such a jolly little shaver, large blue eyes and smiling 

face. 
It vv^ould seem a shame to put him in the corner of 

disgrace, 

Tliat old corner has a virtue not apparent from its 

name. 
Though its mission is correcting, it deserves a teacher's 

fame. 
For upon the wall which makes it hangs a map with 

every tint. 
Ruled and lined and tilled with letters, towns and cities 

marked in print. 

And for lack of other interest, culprits who oft till tliat 

spot 
Lparn to spell out all the letters wliich the printers 

there have wrought. 
And if nothing else comes from it, should it not correct 

the base. 
There's a secondarv value to this corner of disgrace. 



CRADLED MOONS 123 



POLLIKINS 



Dear little Pollikins ; — what a strange name 

To give to a cherub so sweet, 
We cliristened you Paul and there's someone to blame 

In thinking it was incomplete ; 
You laugh and you crow, you smile and you cry, 

Your arms and your feet ne'er are still. 
There's mischief, I think, in each blue little eye. 

And evidence, too, of a will. 

You are not the first little treasure to come. 

We've had several more, it is true, 
But never you mind, we know you have some 

Sweet charms which belong just to you; 
Your dear little self has a place of its own 

In our hearts quite as big as the rest^ 
For babies are kings and you now share the throne 

Which Love has set up in our breast. 

A tyrant you are and at times you demand 

A servitude common to slaves. 
Your wants are unknown, but we understand 

All the things which a baby king craves ; 
The slightest of sound.4 from your powerful lungs 

Impels us to jump to your side. 
With kisses and liugs and with silvery tongues 

We attempt to make you subside. 

But 'tis seldom you frown, and seldom you weep, 
The most of the time vou're so dear 



124 CRADLED MOONS 

That often we've said we would just like to keep 

This baby with us always here ; 
But that cannot be, for babies must grow, 

That is part of the Infinite's plan. 
And the time will soon come wlien the darling we know 

As Pollikins will be a man. 

THE FIRST KISS OF SUNSHINE 

The first kiss of sunshine this morning came to me, 
'Twas not from gleaming sunrise from out the ruddy 

sea. 
Nor yet the golden flashes o'erspreading purple lea, 
A sweeter kiss was mine, then, than any such could be. 

'Twas when I rose and tiptoed my way to baby's bed 
And touched his flaxen ringlets soft resting on his head. 
And saw his blue eyes open, their radiant glances 

spread. 
And felt his arms around me, and kiss from lips rose- 
red. 

I've always called him Sunshine the name is apropos. 
He lightens darkened hours in ways he'll never know. 
His smile reflects the brightness that's in the sun's 

warm glow. 
And melts the coldest nature as summer's warmth melts 

snow. 

I would you'd see my Sunshine, you'd envy me my joy, 
You'd understand my rapture. Love's gold without 

alloy. 
You'd know the depths of meaning in names that I 

employ 
In speaking of my treasure, my little Sunshine boy. 



CRADLED MOONS 125 



BARBEE 

Who is Barbee? What sort of a thing 
Is saddled with such a strange name? 

It has a heathenish kind of a ring, 
And sounds like a parlor game. 

I hear it each morn, I hear it each niglft, 

It comes from the voice of one 
Whose face is lit up with Love's purest light, 

My dear little three-year-old son. 

A smile on his lips and a gleam in his eye, 

A twinkle which tells even me 
That mischief is rampant whenever he's nigh 

And utters the name of Barbee. 

I ask him at times which one he loves best, 

And ever and always I hear 
That strangest of names he calls with a zest, 

'Tis Barbee that he holds most dear. 

Now, who is Barbee? I asked him one day, 

And great indeed was my joy 
To hear this treasure of mine sweetly say, 

"Papa's Barbee, — Me Barbee's boy." 

Oh happy the man who owns such a name 
That is coined from the depths of love. 
Which only in children is found just the same 
As lives in God's heaven above. 



126 CRADLED MOONS 



KING ROBERT 

-• 
There's a king in our house, and we bow to his erown 

Despite every boast of Democracy, free. 
No ermine he wears, nor purple his gown. 

Yet still he is king over mother and me. 

His place is secure, though dynasties "fall, 

And yet like a tyrant he reigns from his throne, 

An absolute monarch, we dance at his call, 
Nor dare to refuse, or his service postpone. 

We call him King Robert (though his name's Robert 
James) , 

But little he cares for his titles of state. 
He accepts tliem as due, and his manner proclaims 

That they are his right, and admit no debate. 

Of course you have guessed who King Robert must be, 
And win' we are proud to serve in his train. 

He's the baby tliat came to mother and me 
And added a world to our familv domain. 



MY BABY'S LIPS 

My baby's lips can reach my hand, 

O baby, baby mine; 
They steal the sting from reprimand 
And contravene each stern command, 
I'm helpless, for I can't witlistand 

Those lips, O baby mine. 



CRADLED MOONS 127 



Your rosy lips were made to kiss, 

O baby, baby mine; 
But not my hand as armistice 
When punislied for some deed remiss, 
Tliough wlicn you win, to lose is bliss. 

Kiss on, O baby mine. 



THE MEASURES OF LOVE 

Tliere's something I've discovered, 

Yes, heretofore unknown. 
Where Love's sweet spirit hovered 

No boundaries had been shown. 
But I have found its measures. 

There many are I've learned, 
'Twas through my baby treasures 

Its limits I discerned. 

With their weak arms around me. 

And their cheeks pressed to mine. 
Love's boundaries all-surround me, 

Their childish hearts my shrine, 
And though Love is restricted 

Through bounds formed by their art. 
If ever it's evicted 

'Twould break this father's heart. 



With playful spirit o'er me 

I asked each little boy 
How much the love he bore me. 

These terms they did employ, 
One stood with arms extended. 

And lips pursed for a kiss, 
(His eyes sweet love-lights blended). 

And said, "As much as this." 



128 CRADLED MOONS 



Another climbed my shoulder 

And whispered in my ear 
So none but I, his holder. 

Could the sweet answer hear, 
"As much, my papa," said he, 

"As this big house can hold. 
That much." and all doubts fled me, 

I knew his love was gold. 



My third boy, brown-eyed sweetness, 

With similes but few. 
Told of his love's completeness 

As only he could do. 
His arms held me so tightly, 

I felt my heart-strings pull, 
"This much," he answered lightly, 

"A hundred baskets full." 



And last of all, my baby. 

Dear blue-eyed "Sunshine" boy, 
Who loves, but knows not, maybe, 

Analogies of joy, 
He answered me (and dared to), 

I laughed, as you will now. 
Love's size to him. compared to 

A great big mooly cow ! 



And so I know Love's boundings, 

Though heretofore unknown, 
Its ocean's deepest soundings 

Are mine, and mine alone, 
The cow, tlie house, tlie baskets. 

And arms outstretched above, 
Are jewel-liolding caskets, 

A Universe of Love, 



CRADLED MOONS 129 



THE PRICE WE PAY 

The price we pay for babes is toil, 

The slavish, thankless kind, 
From rising sun till night we moil 

A constant, ceaseless grind; 
The arms that circle round our necks, 

The kisses sweet and pure, 
Are paid for in the toil that wrecks 

And brings age, premature. 

Is it too much, — this price we pay. 

Are such investments good? 
Come, see them at the close of day. 

My darling little brood, 
Each figure snuggled close in bed, 

Five pair of eyes shut tight, 
And you'll agree when all is said 

The price we pay is light. 

A NOBLE THOUGHT. 

A noble thought 

Hath oft-times wrought 
A deal more than, a deed could do. 

For know you not 

Each noble thouglit 
Becomes in time a part of you. 



130 CRADLED MOONS 



MY LADY'S MORNING SONG 

The morning breaks ; the golden light disperses dimming 
stars 
Reluctant yet to go, 
I rise to greet the glorious sight, the vari-tinted bars 

From Dawn's resplendent glow, 
And ere I comprehend the scene, the splendors of the 
morn 
Now speeding on its wings, 
I hear the voice of Morning's queen along the soft winds 
borne ; 
My Lady sweetly sings. 

The flight-song of the fleet-winged bird, the purple 
martin's lay, 
Though sweet, is naught beside 
The melody and strains Lve heard, my Lady's hymn 
to Day, 
'Tis m"sic glorified, 
A miracle of sound that fills my soul with raptured 
bliss, 
And echoes in my heart, 
Each note entrances me, and thrills, I waft to her a 
kiss; 
My tribute to her art. 



CRADLED MOONS 131 



MY LADY'S WITCHING DANCE 

On with the dance. INIy Lady swings 
Her graceful form to rliythmic time, 

Nor heeds the passing hour; 
Her arm, undra])ed, she outward flings 
In wondrous, joyful pantomime, 

Oh, witching, witching power: 
Amazed, I watcli her as she glides. 
Her gyral motion casts a spell 

And holds me fast and still, 
As light as fairy queen she rides. 
No woodland nymph could e'er excel 

My dancing Lady's skill. 

On with the dance. My Lady leads 
My heart a merry, merry chase, 

And I, proud-willed, declare 
I'll follow her o'er grassy meads, 
O'er mounts, snow-capped, where brooklets race 

And catch her in Love's snare ; 
No more shall doubts my heart beset, 
No more shall fears of loss be rife. 

Nor dizzy race be run; 
But she and I shall pirouette 
Along the rose-strewn paths of life. 

No longer twain, but one. 



132 CRADLED MOONS 



MY LADY'S PRETTY NAME 

"Sweetness" is my Lady's name, ' 

Tribute to her graces, 
Love she kindles into flame 

By lier warm embraces ; 
Sweet her smile, her laughing eyes, 

Sweeter still her kisses. 
And to me such name implies 

Love, and all its blisses. 

"Sweetness" is my Lady's name. 

Homage to her paying. 
Cheeks that blush rose-red, proclaim 

More than tongue is saying; 
Sweet her laugh, its liquid notes 

Fill my soul with pleasure, 
And to me such name denotes 

Love's celestial treasure. 



CRADLED MOONS 133 



MY LADY OF THE VIOLIN 

My Lady sits in idle pose 
Witli violin soft pressed 

By hands of love; 
Her face, a dream bespeaks, and glows 
With softened light that doth attest 

To source above, 
And on that light, methinks the soul 
That haunts each vibrant string 

Doth sit enthroned. 
And whispers harmony it stole 
From tunes the angel choirs sing 

With raptures toned; 
My Lady, my sweet Lady. 

Pray, sing me, mistress of my heart. 
The music whispered thee 

On streaming light, 
I would in mystic rliythmie art 
From Heaven's fount, thy genius see, 

Oh, rich delight ! 
Mayhap the raptures of thy bow 
Will flood my nascent soul 

With love-born bliss. 
And it, attuned with thine, shall know 
The music of our Heavenly goal. 

And twain shall kiss ; 
My Lady, my sweet Lady. 



134 CRADLED MOONS 



MY LADY'S WONDROUS HAIR 

I sometimes think I'm on the brink 

Of old ao;e^ and its care. 
But my old heart reflects youtli's art 

Depicted in your hair; 
'Tis wondrous, Lady mine, 
Yes, wondrous, Lady mine. 

I fear me quite^ if such delight 

Were mine long to behold. 
My years would fly, and soon would I 

Again as youth be bold ; 
What wonder, Lady mine, 
No wonder, Lady mine. 

Some roses blown have often shown 

Attraction for the bee, 
My years, I trust, have not grown rust, 

Perchance there's hope for me, 
What say you, Lady mine, 
Say "Hope," sweet Lady mine ! 



CRADLED MOONS 135 



MY LADY'S GLEAMING GEMS 

My Lady's decked with gleaming stones, 
Her lovely neck and arms, when bare, 
Are fitting settings for the rare 
And costly jewels that she owns; 
Her pearls, inchained, that beautify, 
Are rivaled by my Lady's tears. 
Her opal's fire disappears 
When matched with glances of her eye. 

I would I owned the Indies old. 

If jewels give my Lady joy. 

An ungauged fortune I'd employ 

To shower her with gems and gold; 

But all the precious stones of Earth, 

If gathered in a mammoth pile. 

Would seem but dross, and not worth while 

To me, beside my Lady's worth. 



136 CRADLED MOONS 



MY LADY AND THE CRYSTAL GLOBE 

Deep in the depths of the crystal globe 

What see you, Lady fair? 
Why seek Life's mysteries to probe, 

Wouldst read thy future there? 
What portents flushing cheek, and fire 

Spite-flashed from cruel eye? 
Art robbed therein of heart's desire? 

Canst thou thy fates descry? 
Spurn not them. Lady fair ! 
Spurn not them, Lady fair ! 

See, in the spectrum's azure flame 

Before you, Lady fair, • 

The cryptic marking of a name 

Linked close with thine,-— beware ! 
The divination of each line 

Within yon crystal ball, 
Thou knowst doth prove thy life and mine 

Are linked for once and all; 
Spurn not me. Lady fair ! 
Spurn not me. Lady fair ! 



CRADLED MOONS 137 



MY LADY WITH THE DROOPING ROSE 

My Lady's young, my Lady's fair, 
Her lips are like the drooping rose, 

And soft and silken is her hair. 

Her smile so sweet, that if she chose 

To cliarm away my dark despair 

With one such boon, my night would close ; 
My Lady, Oh my Lady. 

My Lady's young, my Lady's sweet. 

No nectar of ambrosial brew 
In sweetness with her can compete, 

The richest wine of ruddy hue 
Compared to her is incomplete 

And tasteless as the summer dew; 
My Lady, Oh my Lady. 

My Lady's young, my Lady's proud. 
She rules my Iieart with iron hand. 

No arrant knave was e'er as cowed 
As I, when treading Cupid's land, 

My anxious heart doth beat so loud 

I fear the world will understand ; 

My Lady, Oh my Lady. 



138 CRADLED MOONS 



MY LADY GOES TO CHURCH 

When Sabbath comes, and holy calms 

O'erspread the busy marts, 
My Lady shows her regal charms 

In raiment's studied arts; 
And with the chimes of music sweet 

That peal from lofty perch, 
She treads the paths of righteous feet,- 

My Lady goes to church ! 

In high-backed pew, with saintly mien, 

And eyes on book of prayer. 
My Lady with a halo's sheen 

Appears an angel there; 
And I, a chief 'mongst sinning men. 

And marked by worldly smirch. 
Do feast my eyes, and follow, when 

My Lady goes to church ! 



CRADLED MOONS 139 



MY LADY IN THE FIRE-LIGHT 

I see the Lady of my dreams, 

My night's dreams, my day's dreams, 

She's sitting in the fire-light, 

The ruddy, flickering fire-light, 

Her shimmering hair, spun-gold it seems. 

Reflects the charring logs' red gleams. 

The softened shadows of the night 

Add eerie charms to lover's sight. 

For, from her eyes where flame-jets dart. 

Like those within the fire's heart, 

Methinks a cherub's soul doth shine, 

Unlike the mortal soul of mine. 

And in the painting fire's art 

She seems an angel's counterpart. 

Effulgent with a light divine 

That burns the inner soul of mine. 

Which worships my sweet Lady. 



140 CRADLED MOONS 



MY LADY SLEEPS 

My Lady's form is bathed in liglit 

From Luna's blue-tinged beams, 
Her pallid face, like marble white. 

Betrays no earthly dreams, 
Her slender hands, 'midst folds of lace. 

Press softly on her breast, 
The sunshine day to night gives place. 

My Lady now doth rest. 

Sleep sweet, O Lady mine ! 

My Lady's couch is banked with flowers 

And garlands strewn around. 
The offerings of the dew-kissed hours 

Where innocence is found; 
Her fingers clasp a drooping rose, 

A bud of purest white, 
An emblem of her soul's repose, 

A tear-drop of the Night. 

Sleep well, O Lady mine I 

My Lady's room is peopled o'er, 

With angels sweet and fair, 
A train surge through her latticed door. 

And far aloft they bear 
The richest treasure ever borne, 

My heart in silence weeps. 
The moon gives way to blusliing morn,- 

And still my Lady sleeps. 

Sleep on, O Lady mine ! 



CRADLED MOONS 141 



MY LADY IS MY DREAM GIRL 

My Lady is my dream-girl, 
My dream-girl, my dream-girl, 
A phantasy of mind awhirl, 
A bubble on love-streams that purl 
O'er beds where gold doth gleam; 
I see her in the Morn's blush, 
The Morn's blush, the Morn's blush, 
I hear her in the migrant thrush, 
In rippling brooks 'neath woodland brush. 
My Lady's but a dream. 

My Lady lives in Dream Land, 

In Dream Land, in Dream Land, 
With elfs and sprites on golden strand, 
Herself a queen of phantom band 
Who rules o'er all, supreme ; 

I would I were an elf-man, 

An elf-man, an elf-man, , 
A member of my Lady's clan, 
Her king in realms elysian; 

My Lady's but a dream. 



142 CRADLED MOONS 



MY WISTARIA GIRL _ 

I walked a charming bit of country road 

Not long ago, that lay 
Betwixt the city and my town abode, 

'Twas warm, indeed, that day. 
I rested on a rough stone wall beside a welcome spring 
And listened to a Bob-white call; I whistled, answering 
The noisy bird. 

And then, so soft^ I heard a sweeter sound 

Come trilling back to me. 
No echo that, I knew, no feathered warbler 'round 

Could match such euphony. 
And I, — I stood transfixed a moment with delight 
Enraptured by that cry, "Bob White, Bob White," 
'Twas that I heard. 

I gazed arovuid, and there close to the street 

I saw a drooping vine, 
Rich with its purple-tinted blooms, and sweet 

With perfume, scenting fine 
The gentle summer breeze. It ran o'er trellised bower 
Hiding the lattice work complete — each drooping flower 
Like stalactites. 

Half hidden close beside that flowered screen 

A maiden stood, with face 
As fair as any I in life had seen, 

And regal, artless grace 
Her figure bore; her auburn locks contrasted tints 
Of softened greens and lilac, catching glints 
Of summer lights. 



CRADLED MOONS 143 

A simple gown of pink, a flowing, untrimmed dress 

Enhanced exquisite cliarms, 
A pensive face, of wondrous comeliness, 

A goddess ne'er had arms 
So ravishingly wliite ; one hand extended grasped 
A trellis brace, the other gently clasped 
A spiral bloom. 

I met her eyes, my soul leaped from its bound, 

Those liquid depths bespake 
Such pleasant isles, ship "Reason" ran aground, 

No light-buoys mark Love's lake ; 
Her cherry lips were sweetly pursed — a human mock- 
ing-bird 
Was she, "Bob White" the Lorelei that I heard 
Had sealed my doom. 

One smile she gave, one roguish, witching smile, 

And said, "A simple joke, 
My Bob-White call." — So artless, free from guile 

And musical she spoke, 
Methought that Pan h^ taught his golden pipes to her 
As he had tauglit Apollo how to stir 

Each wind-blown reed. 

I wonder — Was the wistaria's strong scent 

Of opiatic kind, 
That froze my tongue, and virulent 

Had stupified my mind.'' 
I answered not, 'twas sacrilege for me to speak 
To one divine, — I stood there, abject, weak, 
Nor dared proceed. 

An understanding nod, then like a flash 
Of sun on silvered glass 



144 CRADLED MOONS 

She rushed away. — I heard the water plash 

Against the stones, the grass 
Beneath my feet, no longer soft, seemed toughened 

brake, 
No rustic charm was left, no spring could slake 
My love-thirst drear. 

I've planted vines beside my cottage door, 

Wistarias so sweet; 
I dream of her, I see her there once more. 

My picture's incomplete. 
It lacks her voice, her smile, her eyes with mischief's 

light. 
But when I hear at times a shrill "Bob White," 
Somehow — she's near. 



FAREWELL 

'Tis sad to part 

When in each heart 
Such tender recollections lie, 

But this we know. 
Where'er you go. 

Our love for you shall never die. 

And from above 

We pray God's love 
To guide you in your future way ; 

The good you've done, 
The hearts you've won, 

Are living memories of your stay. 



CRADLED MOONS 145 

TWO LETTERS 

First Letter, Asking Advice on M atrinwn if : 

My Dearest Friend Charles: — 

I am writing this letter 
To you as a friend^ and also as debtor 
Who's beholden to you for favors you've done 
In years of the past which so swiftly have run, 
And I thought that perhaps, if you would permit, 
I'd just ask another for my benefit. 
I'm about to embark on that uncharted sea 
Which is known by the name of Matrimony, 
And I wish you would write in a true lover's way 
A couple of verses for my fiancee. 

Her charms are so many I could not tell all, 
And the name she is known by is sweet Bertha Hall. 
Her smile is quite witching, her laughing eyes gleam. 
And her lips and lier cheeks are just peaches and cream. 
Her beautiful tresses are fluffed with sucli care 
I think I could love e'en the puffs in her hair. 
Her voice is like Melba's, so full and so clear, 
My heart seems to burst with its music and cheer, 
And she has the cutest and tiniest feet. 
There never were ankles so pretty and neat. 
She plays the piano with wonderful care. 
You'd listen entranced to "The Maiden's Prayer." 
If you could but see her, I'm sur^ you'd agree 
That sweet Bertha Hall is the darling for me. 

So, Charles, please, please write a cute little rhyme 
Whicli will tell of the cliarms of this sweetheart of mine. 
And maybe, perliaps, you can give advice 
About married life which will help and suffice. 
From a married man's standpoint, I wish you'd tell me 
If I marry what think you the harvest will be.'' 

Please write me at once, if you liave a pen, 
Believe me, I am. 

Your dearest friend 

N . 



146 CRADLED MOONS 



Second Letter 

A Huviilii Addressed to a Prospective Bridegroom 

I have sometliing to say 

As I write you to-day. 
It's to tell you that I've had a call 

To be a great poet. 

There's a young amoret 
Who's in love with a lady named Hall. 

I've not had the pleasure 

To meet this sweet treasure. 
There's reason for this cogitation. 

As I write these few lines 

My poor, lonely heart pines 
To journey to her habitation. 

Because I did marry 

Don't think I am chary 
Of adoring the girls large and small. 

Although I'm not a saint. 

In this wish there's no taint, 
I would that I knew this Miss Hall. 



Now, my dear old friend N , 

I've seen prettier men, 
To be handsome, your legs are too thin. 

But while this fact is true, 

I'll just leave it to you, 
With the women you certainly win. 

About 3'our fiancee 

You have little to say. 
Is she built on the lines of a doll? 

Are her eyes blue or brown .'^ 

What's the style of her gown ? 
Is she handsome — your charming Miss Hall.'' 



CRADLED MOONS 14^ 

And I think you did say 
A piano she'd play^ 
That her voice was like Melba's in tone. 
Well, now, isn't it nice, 
You'll botli save the price 
Of a no-money-down graphojahone. 

Married life's not all joy. 

To its bliss tliere's alloy, 
From love's raptures we all have to fall. 

Can your sweetheart bake bread.? 

Are her biscuits like lead.? 
Do you know how to darn, Bertha Hall.? 

Can your dear girl sew stitches 
On the seat of your b — (trousers).? 

Will she crease your pants' legs on the side.? 
Can she lug coal and wood 
As a modern wife should.? 

And is snowy white linen her pride.? 

Say, can you build a fire 

Without raising your ire .? 
Do you know how to ward off a squall.? 

Maybe you'll be loatli 

To have to do both, 
Have you yet had a scrap with Miss Hall.? 

Now, is it your bent 

To grumble at rent.? 
Will you at the grocery man curse.? 

Or will you raise the deuce 

When the servants vamoose. 
And kick when you need a trained nurse.? 

Do you oare for a baby. 
Or several, maybe? 
Can you walk them around when thev bawl? 



148 CRADLED MOONS 



When your little girl cries^ 
Will you tell pretty lies ? 
Will you say^ "You're a darling, Miss Hall?' 

Can you eat beans on Sunday^ 

And again upon Monday^ 
And chew hash all the rest of tlie week? 

Have you learned how to laugh 

When your sweet better half 
P^eeds you eggs tliat are somewliat antique ? 

Will you go on a bat 

When you pay for a hat 
In spring, summer, winter and fall? 

If your wife needs some shoes 

Will you then get the blues, 
And be cross at your dear Bertha Hall? 

On a clear, frosty morning, 

Wlien day is just dawning, 
Do you mind getting up in the cold ? 

If you miss a train. 

Will your wife be to blame? 
Will you give her your money to hold? 

Can you liunt for a sample 

And be an example 
Of a married man's nerve and his gall? 

If there's dress goods to matcli 

Will you act like "Old Scratch"? 
Can you liook up a dress for Miss Hall? 

Now I do not disparage 

Nor make fun of marriage. 
In fact, I'm a much-married man. 

The aim of this letter • 

You'll see when you get lier. 
I desire to help all I can. 



CRADLED MOONS 149 



To you, my old friend, 
My best wishes I send. 

Tliere is nothing like love, after all. 
In true love there is more 
Than this world has in store^ 

So be happy with your Bertha Hall. 



THE SPIRE OF SHAWMUT CHURCH 



Behold, it stands 
Four-square to the world, with a conscious pride 
In its structural strength, and its form beside, 
Proud of the Thought on the builders' part, 
Proud of the soul 'neath the mason's art, 
Pointing the way with its five capped peaks 
To the higher realms that the pilgrim seeks. 
Standing like guard o'er its faith sublime. 
With a fine contempt for the march of Time, 
Seeing the fruits of the Christ-'riched soil, 
Proving the Seed and the Sowers' toil. 
Emblem of love and. of sacrifice. 
Bulwark against every onslaught of vice. 
Memory's shaft for the immortal dead 
Who trod the same paths that the living now tread. 



Worthy art thou, O Spire of God, 

To stand until Gabriel's trump sounds abroad. 

Hurling tlie shame of the little souls back 

Who shiver and fear in adversity's track, 

Deeming it strength to bow to defeat. 

And doubting the God that their weak hearts entreat. 

Seeing, yet blind witli the scales of desire 

Uncleansed by an effort to save or acquire. 



150 CRADLED MOONS 



We who now stand in thy shadow can see 
The Light from above that is smiling on thee, 
And we take hope. 



THE SKY IS AWAKE! 

Suggested by a little child, ivho, seeing the first blush 

of the dawning day, awakens his viother with 

the erif, "Mamma, the skij is azcake!" 

Out of the mouths of babes come words with wisdom 
fraught, 

The eyes of a child liave seen the light of a dawning 
thought, 

Tlie sky is awake, awake, and the beams of the rising- 
sun 

Reveal on cerulean blue a Promised Day begun; 

A day when the hopes of men have fruited into life, 

A day when a brother's hand replaces a stranger's 
strife, 

A day when the tides of youth are impelled by an im- 
pulse strong 

To beach on a common sliore the wreckages of Wrong, 

A day when tlie bonds of race, and the blood-marked 
bounds of State 

Are lost in the Heart of God and the Love that knows 
no hate. 

Oh, the sky is awake, awake, — rejoice O Soul of mine! 

And open thine eyes, my Heart, and welcome the glad 
sunshine, 

Tlie sky is awake, awake, O World with your burdened 
care. 

Rejoice with the poet's child o'er your Day of Promise 
fair, 

Ajid awake with the olorv skv ! 



CRADLED MOONS 151 



SANDY ISLE 



When the south-wind conies a-bringing 
S])ringtime birds so sweetly singing 

All the while. 
Then there comes upon me stealing 
Quite a restless, anxious feeling, 
Ajid my memory's revealing 

Sandy Isle. 



I can see the tall pines standing 
Like a guard as if commanding 

Rock and pile, 
And I hear the constant flapping 
Of the water gently lapping- 
Golden sands which are enwrapping 

Sandv Isle. 



I can see the mountains ranging. 
Grand, majestic and unchanging 

Mile on mile, 
How I often used to wonder 
If Dame Nature made a blunder 
When she cut from them asunder 

Sandy Isle. 



I liave plucked the sweet mayflower 
In each leafy, hidden bower 

And defile, 
I liave heard the bees intoning, 
And I've listened to the moaning 
Of the trees which are enthroning 

Sandy Isle. 



152 CRADLED MOONS 



I have seen the moon bestrewing 
Its fair beams the lake a-wooing 

With a smile, 
From your shores I've seen the gleaming 
Sunset's brilliant colors streaming 
On the waters that lie dreaming, 

Sandy Isle. 



I have heard the Storm God raging 
As if he were then presaging 

Your exile, 
I have watched the lightning flashing. 
And I've heard the thunders crashing. 
I have seen the waters lashing 

Sandy Isle. 



Now the south-wind seems to taunt me. 
And these recollections haunt me 

And beguile, 
Urban joys on me are palling. 
There is little left enthralling, 
For I hear your voice a-calling 

Sandy Isle. 



THE PASSENGER COACH OF LIFE 



I'm riding along in Life's passenger coach. 

Drawn by the engine of Time, 
I'm noting the scenes as each mile I approach 

And marking tlie most sublime. 



CRADLED MOONS 153 



I'm drowsy at times with the roll of the train, 

I'm counting the minutes fly 
Till my journey's complete and I shall attain 
The land of the bye-and-bye. 

And the engine's bell is ringing, ringing, 
Hear its metal tones a-singing, singing, 
As the wheels of Time are bringing, bringing 
Me towards home. 



Companions I have in Life's passenger coach, 

But few that will sit with me, 
For most are afraid that their rights I encroach 

If I speak familiarly. 
They are all engrossed with the scenes on tlie way, 

We've rode through many a land 
Where Youth reigned supreme in the height of its day, 
And joy was on every hand. 

Still the engine's bell is ringing, ringing, 
Hear its metal tones a-singing, singing, 
As the wheels of Time are bringing, bringing 
Me towards home. 



The journey I've made in Life's passenger coach 

I can never make anew. 
And oft on the trip doth my soul bear reproach 

And chide for things lost to view. 
Oh, I wish that I could retrace every rod. 

And see every sight once more, 
Ere my sojourn's at end in the City of God 
On the golden shining shore. 

But the engine's bell is ringing, ringing. 
Hear its metal tones a-singing, singing. 
As the wheels of Time are bringing, bringing 
ISIe towards home. 



154 CRADLED MOONS 



LINES TO A GROTESQUE INKSTAND 

Who fashioned thy form, 

Thy hideous shape, 
With face like a fiend, 

Witli feet like an ape, 
With animal legs 

Growing out of thy head. 
And a sinister leer 

O'er thy countenance spread? 

What manner of man 

Could conceive sucli a bowl 
As a holder of ink? 

Was lie lacking in soul? 
Were esthetic forms 

Overdone or passe 
Tliat he should have schemed 

To cast thee this way ? 

V 

Perchance tliis foul fiend 

Who once dodged Luther's ink, 
Inspired thy lines. 

And his motive I think, 
To prove that he lives 

As of yore, and to lure 
The poor poet's mind 

Prom such thoughts as are pure. 

I've wondered at times 

Why my pen seemed possessed 
To write bitter things, 

And why I was obsessed 
By unhoh^ thouglits 

Of a cynical trend. 
Which, penned by my liand. 

Grieved alike foe and friend. 



CRADLED MOONS 155 



I see now, — 'twas thou 

Who hadst guided my pen, 
A grave waits for thee' 

In the depths of my den, 
Thou canst grin if thou willst 

But the brass of thy soul 
Shall not enter mine 

To bewitch and control. 



THE COUNTRY GRAVEYARD 



Close beside the winding highway. 

Part on hill and part on dale. 
Lies the peaceful country graveyard, 

Where the calms of Death prevail; 
By its gray-tinged gleaming headstones, 

Blanched by moonlight's rays to white, 
Sway tlie long and unkempt grasses 

Bowing; to the breezes light. 



Many stones have settled deeply, 

Some are slanted, as if they 
Braced themselves to stand the weary 

Years which come and pass away ; 
Some liave fallen and lie buried 

In the passes tangled maze, 
Seen by none but feathered pryers, 

Who -indifferently gaze. 



Nothing melancholy seems here, 
For the sun with gladsome light 

Shines on hill and dale in splendor, 
And the stars peep out at night 



156 CRADLED MOONS 



As if they were friendly creatures 
To the ghostly Time-marked stones, 

While the greeit tilings grow unconscious 
Of the haunts of crumbling bones. 

Though the low-fenced yard may hold sac 

Memories for those who still 
Go there weekly with sweet posies 

To mark graves upon the hill, 
Yet for most of us, — mere passers. 

Naught invites nor doth suggest 
Of the painful thoughts which surely 

Sears the souls with grief possessed. 

There are no walks quite so pleasant 

In the hours of qfternoon. 
Or in soft and golden moonlight. 

As these haunts where mem'ries croon ; 
No depression, but sweet, peaceful. 

Calm and beauty doth enthrall, 
E'en the clouds which float above it 

Seem to soothe the cares of all. 

Somehow, few can sense the graveyard. 

Or appreciate its charm, 
Long have vulgar superstitions, 

Morbid customs done it harm; 
But to those of us who love it ^ 

There is notliing grewsome here. 
All is cheerful calm and pleasant. 

Naught to inculcate a fear. 

Just a book, a friend, or mayhap 

Pad for sketching, is delight 
In the quaint old country graveyard 

With its erleaming stones of white; 



CRADLED MOONS 157 



And I think if Dead were conscious 
They would not refuse to share 

Rest with undisturbing mortals 

Who perchance might frequent there. 

There's a charm about the graveyard, 

Peace mysterious, divine, 
And the antique stones have truly 

Lent me thoughts with grandeur fine ; 
And no simple joys or pleasures 

Can profane Death's symbols rife. 
Any more than laugliing breezes, 

Or the blue-bird's happy life. 

Yes, I love the country graveyard. 

Somehow, it has seemed to me 
That its spirit breathes a lesson 

Which, when heeded, makes men free; 
Free from fear, and free from worry. 

For the peace Death typifies 
Is that peace which passeth knowledge 

Of God's home beyond the skies. 



THE SEEDLING THOUGHT. 



Only a fractional percent 

To brook the powers of night. 
Only a few from Heaven are sent 

To lead the way to light. 
Only a speck in a mighty realm, 

A sprout of an infant's tooth, 
But God ! what a power to overwhelm 

The enemies of Truth. 



158 CRADLED MOONS 



Only a fractional percent, 

A seed on the winds of Time, 

But its sliell-like form clasps a continent 

Which shall spring from the muck and slime, 
Only a joke to the pampered few, 

A laugh to their coward serfs, 
Let the minions crow with their soul-jjledged crew 
'Who are civilization's scurfs. 



Only a fractional percent, 

Let the powers tliat rule, beware. 
Lest through this streak. Life's firmament 

Bursts forth in one bright glare, 
Lest the shackles fall from a slavish race. 

Lest the fears of Fear depart, 
Lest the rust eats through Wrong's metal, base. 

And gold shines from man's heart. 

Only a fractional percent. 

The strength of a new-born's hand 
Is ever a source of wonderment, 

None ever can understand ! 
And, like tlie babe, the gauge of its might 

Is found in its grip, it clings 
Witli firmness to Truth, and holds to the right. 

And courage to weakness brings. 

Only a fractional percent. 

Yes, — but the leaven that moves 
The sluggish to rise, and the Cause foment. 

And ever its spirit proves. 
Sneer if you will, ye who cling to the past, 

Teach if you must age-cursed rot, 
Wallow in doubts wliich like fog-banks are massed. 

But — Watch out for the Seedling Thought! 



CRADLED MOONS 159 



THE MEASURE OE LIEE. 



The measure of life is Service, 

The gauge of our God's final test, 
The proof of the Master within us, 

The justified life at its .best; 
The note of sincerity's being 

Wliicli rings like a vessel of gold. 
The force of a brother-man feeling 

That proves men were cast in God's mould. 

The measure of life is Service, 

The unselfish service for man, 
Reflecting that finer devotion 

Evinced in Divinity's plan; 
That plan for transcendent conception. 

Which gave to us earth-born its all. 
And loosened the knot of Sin's tying 

That long lield our race in its thrall. 

The measure of life is Service, 

The portion you mete shall be yours, 
There's a good and a bad compensation, 

'Tis one of Eternity's laws ; 
There's joy to be had in tlie doing 

Of Service whicli may come your way. 
Regrets make a mark on the future 

•Should Service not measure vour dav. 



160 CRADLED MOONS 



AU REVOIR, MISS JO 

Must you go. Miss Jo? 

Must you go and sail the sea 
To a place tliat's far from me, 
Leaving only thoughts of thee, 

Must you really go ? • 

Ere you go, Miss Jo, 

Tell me, have you one regret 
Leaving those you here have met. 
Would you cancel friendship's debt 

Ere you go, Miss Jo? 

As you go. Miss Jo, 

Will the thoughts of days now past 
Cheer you on the ocean vast. 
Tell me, will our friendship last. 

As you go, INliss Jo? 

Where you go. Miss Jo, 

Are there friends who'll be as dear 
To you as the friends left here? 
Do you think they'll be sincere 

Where you go. Miss Jo? 

When you go. Miss Jo, 

When you take your last farewell, 
Say some word which will dispel 
Sorrow without parallel 

Which I know, ^Nliss Jo. 

Why you go, Miss Jo, 

You alone can answer best, 
I have no right to protest. 
But you'll pardon this request, 

Don't go. Miss Jo. 



CRADLED MOONS 161 



THE CLICK OF THE WIELDED PICK 

Oh, I like to list to the wielded pick 

As it strikes against the stone, 
For the rhythm of song is in every click 

And sweet is its metal tone, 

And sweet is its metal tone. 

Oh, it sings a song of labor and toil. 
Of sinew and sturdy brawn. 

Of the human ants who struggle and moil 
Like slaves from the early dawn, 
Like slaves from the early dawn. 

Oh, it tells of things that are soon to be. 

Of conflicts great and small, 
Oh it tells of life and its dignity 

And the future for us all. 

And the future for us all. 

Oh, it's two sharp tines rend the earth in twain, 
And they point the way to gold, 

Were everything lost then the pick again 
Would restore a hundred fold. 
Would restore a hundred fold. 

Oh, I like to list to the wielded pick 

As it strikes against the stone. 
For the rhythm of song is in every click 

And sweet is its metal tone. 

And sweet is its metal tone. 



162 CRADLED MOONS 



TO MR. FORBES-ROBERSTON 

Interpreter of the Beautiful Character of 

"the passer-by" 

These lines are respectfully inscribed. 



It is somewhat like painting the lily, 

Or scenting the violet blue, 
To add to the sweetness and beauty 

Of thoughts which are portrayed by you. 



CRADLED MOONS 163 



THE WANDERER. 

I am a wanderer. Lo, the Son of Man 

Had neither home nor place to lay his head. 
But ever weary, footsore, weak and wan 

He traversed o'er the fields and roads that led 
Unto the city of the holy ark, 

Healing the sick and giving sight to those 
Whose vision from their birth was ever dark; 

He was a wanderer until life's close. 

you wlio act the Christ upon life's stage 
And teach by inference His subtle thought, 

1 pray that in this dark and sordid age , 

Your play will teach the world what Christ has 
taught ; 
That you may ope the eyes of inner sight 

Whidi view the soul that God has given men, 
And by the virtue of that holy light 

Redeem each soul with purity again. 



II. 



WILFUL WOMEN. 

Women are wilful, and the kindest are 

Truly the wilfulest. 'Twas always so. 
For e'en in my poor home my brightest star 

Which in life's darkest spots reflects its glow 
And guides me towards that goal I long have sought 

Hath seemed at times so wilful in its way 
That I rebelled and wandered in my thought 

As madly as careens the owl in day. 



164 CRADLED MOONS 



I fain would choose and clioose for self alone^ 

And clioosing thus, have stumbled oft and fell, 
And only by the light of love that shone, 

Tliough wilful, liave I saved my soul fiom hell. 
For I have learned that woman's wilful mind 

Bespeaks a deep and underlying plan 
Which elevates, ennobles human-kind 

And makes me for the nonce a better man. 



III. 



REFLECTED BRIGHTNESS. 

Where'er you are, if so be that you will, 

Your very presence shall the world make bright. 
And where before, each face foreboded ill, 

A smile shall rest of peace and glad delight. 
Your very coming serves to make hope real, 

Your going leaves a sorrowed prayer behind, 
The meanest soul in all the world shall kneel 

To pray the Lord to bless you and your kind. 



I seem to see from out the poet's eyes 

The places where you've left your gladsome cheer, 
Where liitherto were dark and lowering skies, 

The sun of happiness shines bright and clear. 
I see tlie stolid faces of the past 

Re-kindled witli the light of God's own love. 
I hear His voice from out the heavens vast 

Declare again that vou were born of love. 



CRADLED MOONS 165 



IV. 



PLEASANT THOUGHTS. 

It will be pleasant when old age shall come 

And leave its imprint on life's closing day, 
When I, like other mortals, shall succumb 

To Time's strict mandate, and at last obey 
Dame Nature's laws, immutable, severe, 

For me to gaze in retrospective view 
Upon the time when I was with you here 

And think that I, perhaps, was help to you. 

Oh Time whose majesty's enthroned for aye 

Can ne'er remove the good which we have done. 
Eternity with all it means shall die 

Ere one such deed s,hall fade like setting sun, 
And memory shall be forever bright. 

And treasured shall that thought forever be. 
That while, perhaps, I helped you in the right, 

You, my friend, in obedience helped me. 



MIDDLE AGE. 



Sometimes I think life's best is middle age. 

When the poetry of youth and prose of years 
Are written both together on life's page, 

When youth impetuous is checked by fears. 
When childhood dreams are realized, or forgot. 

When first there comes a glimpse of Heaven's plan, 
A realization of that sublime thought. 

The Infinite made manifest in man. 



166 CRADLED MOONS 



When gilded halls attract not more than do 

The sombre naves of cloisters reared to God, 
When pity, love, and thoughts that tliey imbue 

Have taught us to respect the chastening rod; 
When love's synonymous with God and truth, 

When Hope shines to us like a glittering star. 
Then middle age, the salf-way time, gives proof 

To me at least that it is best by far. 



VI. 



What light and air are to the things which grow. 

What rain is to the parched and heat-dried field, 
So in each life is humor which we know 

Though only few its pointed shafts can wield. 
It adds unto our daily lives a zest. 

Gives piquancy to e'en the sluggish thought. 
It is delightful when it is at best, 

And makes its master by the world besought. 



I sometimes wonder if the angels use 

This sixth sense of the finite, earth-born soul, 
And if at times they e'er have deigned to clioose 

To notice wit which seems to us so droll. 
I wonder if the Calvinistic liell 

Has funny sprites who makes its inmate's lot 
A cheerful one, in spite of where they dwell. 

By humorous quips of some Icelandic spot. 



CRADLED MOONS 167 



VII. 



JOYS OF LIFE. 

It's a fine tiling to live and to give life, 

By that, I mean to make your other self 
(Whom you've acknowledged to the world as wife 

And set above all thought of gold or pelf), 
See in your presence all the hopes of years, 

Read in your eyes your love and all love means. 
Cherish the words with which you dry the tears 

Which often on the face of woman o-leams. 



It's a fine thing to live, and when life's setting 

Fades like the last blush o'er the western hills, 
When gold and red give place to sombre dun, 

When ocean deeps have swallowed shallow rills, 
Then will the joys of life be judged in truth. 

Then will you know that life you gave to her 
Was the foundation of eternal youth. 

Which waits for you beyond the sepulchre. 



VIII. 

THE TRUEST LOVE. 

In the world's book so full of vulgar things 

Which tell of love, some dying and some dead. 
It is most pleasant to find one that rings 

As true in age as when on youth it fed. 
It is to me like a Utopian dream 

By some strange chance made real and manifest. 
I read in it a glorious anthem's theme, 

Wliich only can be sung by Heaven's blest. 



163 CRADLED MOONS 



For truest love sees in the withered flower 

A beauty whicli it owned wlien first it grew. 
Protects it from the fierce and sudden shower, 

And bathes its sweetness in the autumn dew. 
And though there's many a ])romise broken, 

And the world's book lias many pages torn, 
I have seen some wliose love gives every token 

Of being just as true as when 'twas born. 



IX. 



THE GUIDING HAND. 



Nothing, friends, is more beautiful to me 

Than love wliich weathered all the storms of life 
And still sails smoothly on a pleasant sea, 

Nor dreads the spots with storms and billows rife. 
For, like a ship with white, outstanding sail, 

Timbered with oak and sturdy, well-wrought keel. 
It fears not, cares not, for the fiercest gale 

When love, its guiding hand, is at the wheel. 

No fog shall cloud its glistening, sliining wake. 

No storms shall bend each sturdy, knotted mast. 
No rocks nor shoal their toll of lives sliall take. 

It bids defiance to the icy blast, 
And like a white-winged bird of peace it goes 

From port to port, and in a quiet way 
It spreads its sweetness like a blushing rose. 

And proves that love, wlien true, has strength to stay. 



CRADLED MOONS 169 



THE PERFECT LOVE. 

Tlie love of the young- for tlie old and gray, 

When reverence and honor and all they mean 
And deference that's due to age we pay. 

Is life's beginning. But there's more, I ween, 
Than that sweet love, — the love of old for old. 

Ah ! that, my friends, bespeaks eternity. 
There is no dross, but only purest gold, 

'Tis moulded out in perfect symmetry. 

No tinkling cymbals make its presence known. 

No vaunting boast like sounding brass is there, 
But a pure love that has for years been grown 

And needs no voice its accents to declare. 
For when that love which perfect is shall come, 

Then that which is in part shall pass away, 
And love of old for old completes life's sum. 

That is the perfect love, — for that we pray. 



XI. 



THE MEETING PLACE OF FRIENDS. 

The meeting place of friends, I have heard tell. 

Is in the home, the school, the busy mart, 
But would you know where all true friendships dwell ? 

The meeting place of friends is in the heart. 
No friendsliip's real unless the heart extends 

Its cordial welcome to its friendly guest. 
And there should never be a thing 'twixt friends 

Which would prevent its offering the best. 



170 CRADLED MOONS 



For friendship's like a tree which grows and grows, 

Whose roots are fed by Heaven's gentle rain, 
And every drop of friendly rain that goes 

Into its roots renews its life again. 
And no heart is too small to hold a place 

For every friend and keep each place apart, 
So, friends, this thought from memory ne'er efface, 

The meeting place of friends is in the heart. 



XII. 



OLDEN THOUGHTS. 



I love to talk of old things and old times. 

Old books, old friends, old manners, and beguile 
The passing liours witli the olden rliymes. 

Review the vagaries of each, ancient style. 
And like the poet of an age that's gone 

My days among the dead are often passed. 
I see the mighty minds of old shine on. 

Their lustre ne'er bedimmed nor e'er out-classed. 



For in those old thoughts we but live again, 

And what is life but simply doing o'er 
Tlie old time things witli all their joy and pain, 

And modern wisdom is but ancient lore. 
Eternity, when summed up, means but this ; 

There is no old, there is no new, and youth 
When touclied b}' Time's regenerating kiss 

Receives a vision of eternal truth. 



CRADLED MOONS 171 



XIII. 

LOVE GOES ALL THE WAV. 

I summoned my two servants, both were strong, 

And bade them take two packs I fain would send 
Upon a journey that was very long, 

And leave them at the hearthstone of my friend. 
One servant's name was Love, the other, Duty, 

Alike in some respects, in others not. 
Love was fair and garlanded in beauty, 

While Duty looked severe with anxious thought. 

They started off upon the rugged road, 

I watched them as they climbed the lofty hill. 
Each bravely bearing up the heavy load, 

Each looked as though his task he would fulfill. 
But, ere they reached the scraggled mountain's top, 

Poor Duty fell and quit to my dismay, 
And then I knew when Love refused to stop, 

"Duty so soon tires — Love goes all the way." 



XIV. 



It is the helpless and the fallen soul 

That holds within its depths nobility, 
And we should with its sin and griefs condole 

And learn each good and noble quality; 
For no man falls so low upon this earth 

But what some great and lasting good he owns. 
And when the Christ in him has found its birth 

The evil sins and thoughts it soon dethrones. 



172 CRADLED MOONS 



Tlie greatest men of all the times were those 

Who sinned repeatedly and often fell, 
And yet when Christ Himself in them arose 

They saved their souls from out the depths of Hell. 
For often sin and shame are born where love 

Has found no opportunity to show 
Its God-like attributes drawn from above, 

Nor chanee has had its kindnesses to know. 



XV. 



THE MISSION OF ART. 

O, Ugliness is but skin deep, young man, 

And art its duty is to help reveal 
Tlie beauteous thought which underlies God's plan 

Which He, Creator, thought best to conceal. 
The chestnut burr is rough and sharp with thorns, 

Yet holds a sweet and tasty meat within ; 
The sweetest spirit often times adorns 

The heart that's hidden 'neath an ugly skin. 

And though the sculptured marble oft proclaims 

A beauty lacking in the living man. 
The sculptor's honest when his chisel aims 

To interpret God's divine, noble plan. 
As Nature, when an earthquake's force is spent. 

Oft leaves great things before our wondering gaze 
In treasures of a very large extent. 

So art sliould paint the inner beauty's ways. 



CRADLED MOONS 173 



XVI. 

THE GREAT PRIVILEGE. 

It is a great privilege to be deemed 

Worthy to suffer for some great cause or good, 
And only righteous men are so esteemed 

That they are chosen from the common brood. 
The idle, indolent, indifferent kind 

Are never asked to bear the brunt of toil, 
Nor do they ever gain immortal mind 

Or reap the best fruits of the tiller's soil. 

And Christ Himself has been the guiding star 

Of those who've suffered long and patiently. 
And they have looked with hopeful eyes afar 

To that fair land which ever theirs will be; 
And though at times the pain and grief they bear 

Seems to o'erwhelm them in life's darkened room. 
They ne'er should be bowed down by dark despair, 

For angels gladly would their tasks assume. 



XVII. 

REGENERATING THOUGHT. 

The thought of youth it is that shall remake 

The old world into one of youth again. 
And in that thought all care we shall forsake 

And age and such things ne'er will" burden men. 
For youth is but the springtime of our life. 

When hills are green and skies are clear and blue. 
And age to man seems naught but care and strife, 

With lowering clouds which hide the sun from view. 



174 CRAJDLEU MOONS 



And when those thoughts possess and cheer the heart, 

There'll be no age, for youth will be supreme, 
And all will be just springtime's counterpart, 

And God's own sun of happiness will gleam. 
The world itself is countless ages old, 

And still is young, for aeons yet shall speed 
Ere it shall die and all its days be told. 

And age, if there be age, shall come indeed. 



XVIII. 



ALTRUISM. 



Some people think the ego that's in all, 

With selfish thoughts and motives that they make. 
Predominates in man since Adam's fall 

And no pure, altruistic instincts wake. 
Because, since man to man is oft unjust, 

Since princes wear the ermine and the gold. 
Since beggars feed upon the husk and crust. 

They can no generosity behold. 

But there are many fellows whom I know 

Are generous and kind, and always share 
With all the world what Heaven doth bestow. 

And do it with a tact and talent rare. 
And it's this type of men that doth belie 

The cynical and narrow minded kind, 
They give their all with smile, nor reason why, 

And leave all thought of self and gain behind. 



CRADLED MOONS 175 



XIX. 

THE LOWLY JEW. 

So many of the noblest men I've known 

Wliom I have loved, were Jew's, by all revered, 
Men in whose simplest actions have been shown 

To live in truth the faith in which they're reared; 
Whose ancestors were richly blest by God, 

Who were by Abraham and Moses led, 
Who o'er that beauty-land of promise trod. 

Who were by Heaven's bounteous manna fed. 

Theirs is a race so rich in deed and name. 

That I, poor scribbler of this verse, would say 
That oft I hang and hide my head in shame 

To think that some their ignorance display, 
And, since the world condemns, reviles and scorns, 

Have persecuted, drove from place to place. 
The lowly Jew. — And He Who wore the thorns. 

Who gave His life for all, was of this race. 



XX. 

love's offering. 

What does my lover otter me ? Wealth ? No, 

But poverty and struggles, hopes and fears. 
And pain and joy; a life where love will grow 

Triumphant o'er the swiftly passing years ; 
A home where love shall reign supreme, and hope 

Is ever manifested in our lives. 
Whose very presence gives us strength to cope 

With trou"ble and the things on which it thrives. 



176 CKADLED MOONS 



What does my lover oflfer me ? Life ? Yes, 

A life of peace, where Love and God both reign, 
Where each one strives in honor to possess 

The noble tilings a better life would gain. 
Where parentage is held to be divine, 

Where baby voices -laugh and crow in glee, 
Where love is looked on as a blessed shrine. 

These are the things my lover offers me. 



XXI. 



THE BETTER SELF. 



There are those whose better self lies slain. 

By their own liand, to trouble them no more. 
Who've sacrificed their virtue just to gain 

The fruits which sin doth seem to hold in store : 
Who, lo, these many years were dead to love 

And purity and all its inward joy. 
Who catch no glimpses of the light above. 

And cast aside their birthright as a toy. 

But thou, sweet child, can never be like these, 

Thy better self controls thy every move, 
And wouldst thou e'er thy baser spirit please, 

Thy better self would chide thee and reprove. 
It is too strong for you to disobey. 

Thank God for that, and try each day to show 
Yourself obedient to its benign sway. 

And live the Christ life here on earth below. 



CRADLED MOONS 177 



XXII. 

I KNOW YOUR VOICE. 

I know your voice. I hear it in the wind ; 

I hear it in the silence of the night. 
Its echoes sweetly vibrate on my mind, 

Though never do I comprehend it quite. 
I list unto its soft and gentle tones 

In meadow brooks and in each gurgling rill, 
It cries to me from out the very stones, 

And everywhere its accents haunt me still. 

It conjures up the scenes of childhood days, 

When pure of heart I wandered in the wood 
And listened to the linnet trill its lays 

Of happiness and peace. — Then life seemed good, 
And God was close at hand, and I could hear 

Tliat still, small voice .which prompted me to be 
x\ll that my inner soul had long held dear. 

And purest love was its affinity. 



XXIII. 

THE FEAR OF BEING GREAT. 

The fear of being great is what keeps men 

Forever little both in mind and soul, 
And many a man with talents more tlian ten 

Has dared not try to reacli the mighty's goal. 
The coward thouglit has gripped them in its hold. 

The fear that genius is of different clay, 
That God Who fasliioned broke its spirit's mould 

When one such soul was sent upon its way. 



178 CRADLED MOONS 



Oh, we who view the world with older eyes, 

Should shout this truth from housetops everywhere, 
And tell our youth that he who really tries 

The ripe fruits of true greatness will he share. 
And that this fear of which I've spoke in rhynie 

Is foolish, vain, and speaks of cowardice, 
And only those who rise to heights sublime 

Can understand what living truly is. 



XXIV. 



THE WORLD S NEED. 



Tlie whole round world is but a woman's child. 

Its childish instincts claim what mothers give, 
Maternal love, sweet, pure and undefiled 

It must have if its better self would live. 
Her tenderness, supreme in everything, 

The self-denial which all mothers own, 
The mother-thought of which the poets sing 

And other attributes by mothers shown. 

The whole round world of which we are a part 

Reflects our feelings be they good or ill. 
And what we own to our dear mother's heart 

The world doth own to God's Infinite will. 
And it receives from Him who gave it birth 

The same sweet tenderness and love whicli we 
Who can appreciate our mother's worth 

Enjoy and bless her for eternally. 



CRADLED MOONS 179 



XXV. 



You have learned it. — The deepest, noblest joy 

In all the world is giving what you may, 
For kings whom many pleasures seem to cloy 

No better fun nor happiness essay; 
The slavey in her daily life of toil 

Can know its joy as well as knighted peer, 
And all in life who are compelled to moil, 

Or idle rich, can own its gladsome cheer. 

And ever happiest of the lot are those 

Who give away where naught can be returned, 
Who ne'er in ostentatious manner pose. 

Who have of poverty their kindness learned. 
The secret of a happy life is this, 

A blessed life whose potency is great, 
It's giving without stint or prejudice, 

And every thought of self subordinate. 



XXVI. 

TRANSIENT BEAUTY. 

All men and women are fair. Some you know 

Are fairer than others, 'tis Nature's fault. 
For had she but endeavored to bestow 

Her charms alike, there'd be none would revolt. 
But wise old Nature knew what we do not. 

Though beauty, grace and kindred things abound 
In all her realms, equality is not 

And never will in anything be found. 



180 CRADLED MOONS 



So it behooves all those who fairest are 

To be considerate, and bear in mind 
That they have more to make them so by far, 

And should in consequence be truly kind. 
For beauty's but a fading, passing flower. 

It buds, it blossoms, and it drops away, 
Forgot it is in but a fleeting hour, 

Bv all who marked its beauty in its day. 



XXVII. 



SUBSERVIENCY. 



No man may accept a gift with honor — 

Save from a friend, a friend that he knows well, 

Who, when friendship prompts him to be donor 
Gives more than e'en the gift itself could tell; 

Whose heart and soul go out in loving thought, 
Whose prayers attend the simplest proffered gift, 

Whose act in kindliness and love's begot, 

■ Whose motives none would ever think to sift. 

But where pure love doth prompt the giver's liand. 

No servile motives underlie the act, 
Then honor, truth and rectitude shall stand 

And vouch for its sincerity in fact. 
But well it is for young men to beware. 

For often in a gift there is implied 
Subserviency or that which might ensnare 

And by acceptance would their honor cast aside. 



CRADLED MOONS 181 



XXVIII. 

LOVE AND THE FEAR OF POVERTY. 

Love ! She is a woman, and she can love 

All men save one, and with all men may dwell 
Save he alone who fears the mailed glove. 

The snorting charger and the battle smell; 
The coward, who betrays love with a kiss, 

Whose very glance turns sweetness into gall. 
Who lives a life of wicked avarice 

Wliicli love espews, — she'll none of him at all. 

It is not poverty's grim self alone 

Which drives love out from the poor cottage door, 
But fear of poverty which has been known 

To wreck our hopes and lives forevermore, 
And often has that fear been proved to be 

Absurd and groundless yet too late in life 
To call back love and its sweet purity 

Which once acknowledged was by man and wife. 



XXIX. 

A PROMISE. 

There will come days, perhaps, my friend, which will 

Recall a promise made when life was young, 
When tempters try to lead you down the hill. 

When sirens lure with silver music sung; 
When righteous thoughts might savor of a prude, 

Wlien Satan comes bedecked in guise of friend, 
And seeks your soul with sinful pleasures lewd. 

Then will that promise made its strength extend. 



182 CRADLED MOONS 



For promises are like the iron bar 

The builder uses in his concrete wall; 
Cement alone might stand the shock and jar, 

But iron binds and strengthens 'gainst a fall. 
And every righteous promise which we make 

And resolution to attempt the best 
Will steel our souls in trial, and awake 

Tlie memories whicli long liave been at rest. 



XXX 



A GLADSOME GIFT. 



You shall give to me, my friends, this gladsome gift. 

That I can keep and cherish and enjoy^ 
Which will, when memories overwhelm me, lift 

Each troubled doubt which would my peace destroy. 
A promise of a love without an end 

Which you'll forever to each other hold, 
That never will with dross nor baseness blend 

But always gleam as doth the purest gold. 

For love 'twixt man and woman doth reflect 

A higher love which we believers know, 
And how can we that heavenly love expect 

If ever we this earthly love outgrow.'' 
For love is life and life is God, and all 

Harmoniously are blended into one. 
And when Death's angel blows the trumpet call 

Eternal life and love shall be begun. 



CRADLED :M00NS 183 



XXXI. 

LEAVE-TAKING. 

Leave-takings are but sadness wasted, quite, 

We meet in life, we part in death, and yet 
Our parting is but passing in the night 

And never should we this sweet thought forget; 
That night-time passes, and the rising sun 

Proclaims another day in whieli we meet. 
Each radiant with a new life just begun, 

A life where we renew our friendship sweet. 

I also am a servant and have work 

Which I must do, — my Father now commands 
That I depart and go where troubles lurk 

Help bind again the parted, broken strands 
Of love and hope. Good bye, my friend, good bye. 

I shall return in God's own time ; till then 
With all the noblest thoughts in life comply. 

Be true to self, and love thv fellow men. 



O, thou interpreter of love and truth. 
We never will forget thy sublime art; 

Thy mirrored face regenerates with youth 
And reflects sunshine in each troubled heart. 



184 CRADLED MOONS 



TOO PROUD TO PRAY 



She was too proud to pray ; 

Too proud, 

And yet — 

Her life was but a voiceless prayer 

Living her hopes, unuttered, 

Rare in the beauty of a Perfect Prayer; 

ONE knew, and answered, — then 

I came into her world, 

Apart, yet in a world of men. 

Sang of Her song. 

Her kindled faith .to share, 

Read of her heart 

And saw — 

The woman there, 

God: — What a prayer. 

What a prayer ! 

She was too proud to pray. 

Too proud. 

But that was in her yesterday, 

For now 

Her inner soul, unfettered, leaps 

To Him, 

And rings 

With music of remembered things 

Lost in her wayward pride. 

Voicing in symphony of ])rayer 

That which is bare 

Of pride, 



CRADLED MOONS 185 



And I, — I care, 
And dare ; 

God: — What a prayer. 
What a prayer. 



SONNET. 

To Virginia. 

I gathered blushing roses kissed by June, 

I pressed their tender petals to my heart, 

And then, as children do, I tore apart 

Their scented loveliness; (Toy life's at noon) 

And though tlie leaves were by soft winds bestrewn 

I took the perfumed sweetness to the mart 

In jars that Memory fashioned by her art 

So I might keep the spirit of the June. 

How like, Virginia, are thy roses now 

To Spring-time's crowning glories, fresh and sweet? 

Yet Time will rend thy blooms, and years, somehow 

Bear off the rapturous red of youth's conceit. 

But Memory lives and holds for me I trow. 

The pure cliild fragrance in thy soul complete. 



186 CRADLED MOONS 



I NEVER KNEW. 

I never knew how much the love you gave me, 
I never knew the pain you bore to save me, 

I never knew, I never knew ; 
Nor did I see the anguish and the sorrow, 
The stifled fears that dreaded each to-morrow, 
Nor did I note how far the tide had brought me 
Until the eddy's swirl enticed and caught me, 
I did not see, — the mists had so enwrapped me. 
And but for you remorseful rocks had trapped me. 
The lights of Love your heart's true beacon showing 
Redeemed and saved despite my weak, unknowing, 
"I never knew, — I never knew." 

I never knew what fools men are at morning. 
Their rising sun but blinds them in its horning; 

I never knew, I never knew ; 
Yet graying tones of Time my skies are blending. 
Through misted eyes I see your love transcending, 
I see from heights, new found, my land of glory, 
And couriers bring me Wisdom's grapes, and story 
Of greening woods, of lakes and towering mountains, 
Of poets' rests beside Hope's gushing fountains. 
And as I see, I fear not dark around me 
Nor dare to say since in the fog you found me, 
"I never knew, — I never knew." 



CRADLED MOONS 187 

HIS HEART WAS YOUNG 

In Memoriani * 

JAMES B. HAWKINS 



He was not old, although the fruited years 
Were measured by a four-score written guage, 
His heart was young and laughed at whitened age 
With all its frailties and its common fears. 

Strong in his faith, a faith ingrained in youth, 
His Christ had worn for him a joyful mien, 
That often he in visioned prayer had seen, 
I knew it, for liis life reflected Truth. 

Wise were his words, and yet was Wisdom's tongue 
Tempered and ruled by a kind father's love 
And soft his tone, as fluttered wing of dove 
When teaching needed lessons to the young. 

The children knew, — they sensed his finer soul. 
They gathered 'round, his hands were ever held 
In childish clasp, nor yet was one compelled 
Save in that love that gave him sweet control. 

His life was calm, though raging tempests stirred 
And sorrow churned its placid seas to foam, 
He crossed the bar and brought his frail craft home 
Through course once set by God's Eternal Word. 

He is not dead ! No, that could never be. 

For Death is Life, and life not far away 

But pulsed with ours, and through the endless day 

He lives, and still his Spirit walks with me. 



188 CRADLED MOONS 

THE GENTLE LIFE 

f In Memoriam 

REV. J. V. CLANCY 

"His life was f/entle, and the elements so mixed in him that 
Nature mif/ht stand up and say to all the world, — "This was a 
man !' " — Shakespeare. 

This privilege was mine, — I knew the man, 
His life, so calm, 'twas like a placid pool 
Kissed by the willows in the wooded glen, 
Its deeps reflecting Heaven's smiling blue 
And in its close confines embracing all 
The Universe above. 

I loved the man; 
His gentle life appealed to men like me. 
The elements that make for noble souls 
So blended were into his earthly form 
Tliat common folk, whose eyes are dim at best, 
Could see the Moulder's hand that fashioned him 
And purged his clay of dross. 

I heard the man; 
The Sabbath morns I've sat beneath his spell 
When unembellished truths of gospel lore 
Breathed with tlie still warm mist of Spirit faith, 
Soothed and inspired the restless soul I own, 
Sweet memories all shall be, and evermore 
Remembrances of joy. 

I saw the man ; 
I watclied him when tlie fateful shadows fell. 
No coward words betrayed an anxious thought, 
If fears there were, his faith supremely stilled 
And cast them out. His was the faitli that sang. 
His true and constant prayer, "Thy will be done;" 
He never doubted God. 



CRADLED MOONS 189 



I marked the man; 
As one whom Heaven had sent on earth to lead, 
To teacli and guide, and point the upward way, 
I marked him well, and now, in retrospect 
I see what I saw not while he was near. 
The greatness of humility? 'twas that 
Which proved and gave him place. 

I've missed the man; 
Since he has gone, the curtains low are drawn, 
Nor I alone, his world still mourns him dead; 
But God had need, His servant's work was done. 
Our word must be "Amen" ; yet suns will shine 
Never again so bright for those whose hands 
Have felt the warmth of his. God loved this man. 



THE KINDEST MAN 

"The kindest man, the hei^t conditioned and unwearied npirit 
in doin<i courtesies." — Merchant of Venice. 

In Memoriam 

REV. HENRY E. WARREN 



The kindest man ; 

Some thoughts transcend our studied themes. 
The pen I hold can ill express 
The measure of his nobleness, 
For like an angel in my dreams 
He comes — the man whose heart was kind. 



190 CRADLED MOONS 



The kindest man ; 

O, friends, if I could only tell 
The kindly things that marked and showed 
The soul of him whose radiance glowed 
And cheered beyond a parallel 
Save Christ: — You'd see the Christ behind! 



Tlie kindest man; 

I saw the holy balm of Love 
Wliich he, the ministrant, gave all. 
I heard the words that broke the thrall 
Of sin, and taught of God above 
To men: — In him, I saw God's mind. 



The kindest man ; 

Beneath his bounds of fleshly dress 
A quiet conscience peaceful lay, 
Unshrinking from the light of day. 
His hope of Everlastingness 
Was real, and from on Higli divined. 



The kindest man ; 

He smote tlie rock that stemmed the stream 
From founts of Love ; — he held the cup 
And gave a measure or a sup 
To tliose wlio asked for Life supreme 
And Hope. No soul he e'er declined. 



The kindest man; 

Death is a jewel in the crown 
Of him whose form returns to dust. 
Its beauteous gleam reflects the just 
And holy life. Tliough dark comes down 
On us, — still shines its light inshrined. 



CRADLED MOONS 191 



The kindest man; 

O Grave, where is tliy sting? 
O Death, thy victory is naught! 
He lives forever in our tliought. 
We pluck the blooms of gardening 
He did, and all of them remind 
Of him: — the kindest man. 

The man whose heart was kind. 



THE GLORY AND SHAME OF GOD 

God created man. He breathed into the mould 
His sacred breath, and from the base arose 
A prodigy of earth ! Supreme o'er finite things 
And heir to infinite. Creative power He gave 
In all save life. As dwelling place He loaned 
The gem of all His millioned stars, 
He bade man live; — live, and joy in life; 
Man was the glory of God ! 

God created man. The power He gave to clay 

Grew insolent and arrogated all to self; 

Denied the right to create life, man joyed 

And reveled in destruction's fearful might. 

He killed, yet not content with slaughter of the brute, 

The instruments of death he liurled upon his kind 

For fancied wrongs. The Universe sheds tears. 

Man is the shame of God ! 



192 CRADLED MOONS 



THE HYPOCRITE 

Thus spake the Hypocrite : 

"I did not seek this thing, 'twas thrust upon 
My meek and lowly self, Oh foul the deed ! 
Here lie my hero dead, for me they died, 
Nor questioned why, and all because of those 
Who, like a host of vandals seeking prey. 
Sought to destroy and lay our land to waste. 
Rude, lustful men, not knowing kultur's pride 
Deaf to the mandates from my august throne 
Prompted by Love, with none of War's desire, 
Which, if obeyed, would make this mundane world 
Utopia for all." 



The Poet Deigns Reply: 

"O, base, unworthy wearer of thine ermine robes, 
Thy acts belie thy weak and supine words. 
Were twenty years of ceaseless, studied toil 
To hoard tlie garnered crops tliat Death had sown 
P'or naught but love? Was it for this you heaped 
A golden minted store, and builded vast 
And mighty arsenals, where molten steel 
Ran like the freshet brooks in molds of Hell? 
Was it for Love thy banquet toasts were made 
To that e'er nearing and designed- for 'Day' ? 
Was Love tlie prompter when thy men prepared 
With thy consent the noxious, poisoned gas 
To blast and kill? Was this all done for naught? 
Go, shed thy tears, — the whirlwinds sown of yore 
Have gathered force, and even now o'erwhelm 
And frighten thee. I would not change my place. 
My Immble lodge, a poet's frugal life. 
For all the^ vast estates and lionors thine 
Were consciences to be exchanged, and hearts, 
I sing of Love, not hate, save to thy kind. 
Thou liypocrite !" 



CRADLED MOONS 193 



LOOK TO THE END • 

The Sinking of the Lusitania by a German submarine 
prompted this poem. 

The German Empire is no more, 

The hand that struck unseen 

An ocean's ruling queen 
Has stricken hearts of millions more 

Than sank in watefs green, 

Cursed be that hand unseen ! 

The Emperor of Hate has smiled, 

And in his smile he lost 

What centuries have cost. 
The reverence born to German child, 

A people's love embossed 

On Union's shield; — yes, lost! 

Oh, we whose veins prove Teuton sires, 

Who lieretofore were proud 

Of German traits endowed, 
Must grasp Hate's fagots from War's fires. 

And hide its deeds with shroud, 

O, God ! — and we've been proud ! 



THE YELLOW CLOUD 

A cloud, a yellow cloud, and deep and dense 
(Methought the farmer-gods burned saffron pitch 
Or damped the stubble from their garnered fields 
To smother flame, save for a breath to fan 
Their slow consuming fire) it rose. The sun. 
My laughing, joyous sun, that sang of Hope 
And gave me life, a poet's life — yea, more — 
Was lost to view, and, but for truant rays, 
Tinged with a yellow cast, the day was done, 



194 CRADLED MOONS 



And with a rush the winds of Heaven shook 

And swayed the giants of my little world, 

I thought them strong (I mean the oaks and pines 

My sires planted in the bygone years), 

Some fell, their roots exposed a worthless clay, 

But most stood firm, though beat by scourging blasts 

And hissed by mocking Voices of the winds. 

And I — I was afraid. I looked, and lo ! 
In the blackening deeps of the cloud I saw 
(As though I had gazed on a silvered glass 
That mirrored the deeds of a demon world) 
A picture of War ! Men mounted and afoot, 
Guns, weltering steel, man's vulture-like planes, 
The gray of the froth-churning fleets of the sea, 
The eye of the seeing yet shadowless boat 
Still lying beneath the crests of the waves ; 
All this did I see, and more. In the west 
Leered a Mongol face with a jealous hate 
Expressed tliereon. And then a sliadow hand 
Wrote with a blood-dipped pen (a broken spear) 
These dismal words — "For you to come, for you !" 

I closed my eyes, the Coward-tliought had gripped 
And held me bound — and then, to view again 
I opened them. Behold ! That yellow cloud 
Had almost disappeared. Its fleeting fringe 
Formed on the blue of tlie heavenly bowl 
As though it were writ by tlie Maker's hand. 
The one word "Fear." I knelt, and understood; 
The sun drove off the winds. My little world 
Once more rejoiced; the fallen trees I left 
That I might be reminded of these truths; 
Fear is a cloud, a shadow, seeming real. 
Portentous glooms give way to joyous suns, 
The winds of doubt can but uproot tlie weak, 
No more I'll fear again. Fear is not real. 



CRADLED MOONS 195 



THE RETINUES 

Like a bolt from out the sky, 
With its vivid, blinding flash. 
Like the thunder's grinding crash, 
Like the wind-waves on the rye. 
On the shimmering, ghostly wings 
Of the man-birds of the air. 
With the bombast and the flare 
Of the iron hulls of kings. 
So came War. 

Like the frightened mew-gull's flight. 
Rising swift with startled cries. 
As the circled white moon dies 
In the cloud-black depths of night, 
'Midst the dirges of the weak 
And the fear-doubts of the strong, 
'Midst the vaunt of martial song 
And the sword blade's cut-air shriek, 
So fled Peace. 

Followed each a retinue. 
War, the mighty, proudly stalked, 
Close-heeled by the hosts who walked 
Liveried in sombre hue 
Of the Grand Duke Death, the grave. 
Goaded by Wrong's fancied stings 
And by bravura of kings. 
Honest hosts, yet withal slaves, 
Slaves of War. 



196 CRADLED MOONS 



Like the vultures of the plain, 
Tagging on, and grasping tiglit, 
Came the spectres of War's night, 
Chortling o'er their toll of slain 
Full accoutred, Famine rode, 
Pestilence ranged to and fro, 
Poverty, like carrion crow. 
Ate the seeds that Peace had sowed. 
Seeds of Love. 



Such a retinue had War. 
Peace, the passive, when she fled, 
Marched with Progress straight ahead 
To the realms of Future Law. 
Justice rode on jewelled seat, 
Wealth and Honor marked the way, 
Industry linked hands with Play, 
Hope, victorious o'er defeat. 
Ensigns bore. • 



When the War-clouds have been rent. 
When Love's seeds once more take root 
And the blood-riched ground bears fruit, 
When the strengtli of INIight is spent. 
When a sane world, now o'er thrown 
By grim War and retinue. 
Holds its futile ends in view, 
Then shall Peace come to its own 
And for aye. 



CRADLED MOONS 197 



AN HANDFUL OF MEAL 

"An handful of meal in a barrel, and a little oil in a 
cruse." — 1st Kings, 17:12. 

I sat in my cosy study, with naught but the light from 

the log 
That burned on the hearth-stone ruddy, defying the 

damp and the fog 

Of the out-doors' dark and gloom. 
And I heard the cold winds bluster as they swept from 

the Blue Hills down. 
While the rain-drops gleamed with lustre like the jewels 

of a crown 

On the windows of my room. 

There I mused o'er a poet's yearnings, and I longed for 

a theme and song 
That, like the log in its burnings, would flout all the 

storms of Wrong 

And banish the glooms of pain; 
When, up-startled quick, I listened to the moanings of 

the wind. 
And saw where the window glistened, a picture, sharp 

defined 

In the globule of the rain. 

Like a lens Math its focal power reducing a mirrored 
scene, 

That fleck of the whipping shower then thrown on my 
glazed screen 

Reflected a saddening sight. 

For my mind had a sensive coating, and tlie image trans- 
ferred there 

Still lives in its confines, smoting and chiding me, 
whene'er 

My ease-fond heart sings light. 



198 CRADLED MOONS 

'Twas a garret in the city^ one my pen could never 

draw, 
And my soul was filled with pity at tlie wretchedness 

I saw, 

In no place mollified, 
There, a woman I saw, weeping, while around her on 

the floor 
Lay three little children, sleeping, rags their coverlet, 

no more. 

No warm fire I espied. 

Starved, the form that I saw bending o'er a cupboard, 

seeming bare, 
'Twas a picture most heart-rending, one of poverty's 

despair. 

Foreign, even unto me. 
Roughened hands she wrung in sorrow, tears redoubled 

in their flow 
As she thought of the to-morrow and of what it niiglit 

bestow, 

Dark the portents, I could see. 

In tlie flickering lamp-light gleaming, I beheld an 

earthen crock, 
Which, though once with flour teeming, now a liandful 
held, to mock 

And to jeer at falling tears, 
Tlien I tliought of that old story, lianded from tlie ages 

down, 
Of a prophet, old and hoary, of a widow in a town 
Gone for, lo ! these many years. 

And how God, through liim, sustained lier. though the 

meal and oil ran low. 
Through her faitli, the scant remainder never seemed to 

lesser grow 

All despite the common use, 



CRADLED MOONS 199 



And I wondered if past ages were more favored by the 

Lord, 
If our griefs He still assuages, when His mercy is 

implored. 

If He still refills Life's cruse? 



While I mused, another falling raindrop, merged in 

unison 
With the first, that scene appalling, was translated into 
one 

Filled with even greater shame, 
I beheld a battle raging, I could see the cannon's flash, 
And the smoke arose, presaging death to thousands in 
the clash, 

Hell-like seemed War's lurid flame. 
In the midst of that fierce battle, 'twixt both armies in a 

trench. 
Undisturbed by roar and rattle, minding not the rotting 
stench. 

Lay a soldier nigh to death, 
In his hand a picture showing wife and children count- 
ing three. 
Who, I could not help but knowing, were the same that 
I did see, 

Rapt, I held my quickened breath. 



First, he gazed on it intently,, with a smile upon his 
face, 

To his lips he raised it gently, then I saw the teardrops 
race 

Down each blackened, smoke-stained cheek. 

And I saw liis lips beseeching God Almighty them to 
spare. 

When a hurtled shell came screeching, falling close be- 
side him there. 

Crazed by fear, I gave a shriek ! 



200 CRADLED MOONS 



In my friglit, I lost the setting of the picture in the 

rain, 
And my eyes were welled and wetting, for tlie tears 

knew no restrain, 

I had seen what War had wrought, 
And the darkening shadows lengthened, as the charring 

log low-burned, 
Thougli the blackened depths but strengthened all that 

plastic mind discerned. 

Coming, as it did, unsought. 

Then I looked for my vision's meaning, for I knew that 

a lesson lay 
In these pictures for my gleaning, so I read wliat the 

prophets say. 

And this was revealed to me: 
If thou draw out thy soul's deep measure to tlie hungry, 

and satisfy need 
Of afflicted hearts with thy treasure, thy* liglit shall the 

noon-day exceed 

And rise from obscurity. 

And I read of the promise spoken. He would widows and 

fatherless sliield. 
For the handful of meal was a token of bushels His 

harvests should yield. 

And herein my lesson lay ; 
And I vowed that the poet's mission would henceforth 

be, to bring 
A world of self-men to contrition, and teach of the joys 

that spring 

From sliaring our joys alwa3^ 



*I.sai;ih Iviii. 10. 



CRADLED MOONS 201 



THE ACCUSING HANDS 

A 1918 MEMORIAL DAY THOUGHT 

I had a vision of tlie nearer Past, 
I saw tlie marching hosts of Glory come 
Timing their step with rhythm of the drum 
Muffled for mortal ears. I stood aghast 
At numbers dressed in the familiar blue 
Sacred and blessed through Freedom's sacrifice, 
Each one a measure of an holy price 
That paid the debt for Liberty I knew. 

And as they marched, instead of brave salute 

To me, the watcher by the spirit road, 

Their fingers seemed to point in shame, and goad 

My shrinking Soul. Their voices, too, were mute, 

But oh, the eloquence of piercing eyes, 

I saw in them THE QUESTION of the Day, 

"What are YOU doing in the mighty fray 

To save the world and still its anguished cries.''" 

And when they passed, the hosts of Chosen Dead, 

Another line, dull khaki-clad, marched by, 

Lifting in pride their colors to the sky. 

My Flag, by France's three stripes led, 

Witli Briton's flaming banner close behind. 

And intermingled oriflammes of those 

Who fight with Right against unrighteous foes, 

"O, God, how young," the thought that flashed my mind. 

They, too, all pointed with their ghostly hands 
At me, and then my visioned picture changed. 
I saw distinct, their hallowed mounds, arranged 
In countless rows, cross-marked, in foreign lands; 



202 CRADLED MOONS 



I saw the serried ranks of men arrayed 
Defying Death, and braving Hell, for me, 
Tliat I, and all my kind, be truly free, — 
And then I wept in bitterness, and prayed: 

"Lord, what am I, that I should dream and sing 

Whilst they, the Living Dead, march to Tliy Throne? 

Am I a coward, that I watch alone 

And nurse my hopes, when stalwart comrades bring 

Their greatest sacrifice to Thee for aye. 

Their golden lives, their manhood's restless prime, 

Their fresh youth dreams, each offering, sublime; 

Must I but sit and dream through troubled day?" 

God answers prayer, and ere my vision left 
There came to me a voice in thunder tone: 
"Go, seek the altars that are thine alone, ' 

Then sing thy song to cheer the hearts bereft. 
And I, the living God, will lend thy music fire. 
Healing for nations when the conflicts cease, 
Voicing i\Iy Thouglits into Eternal Peace, 
Thy song shall fill the troubled heart's desire!" 

And hearing thus, I oped my eyes, and saw 

The arched Heavens smiling down on me. 

And lo ! my song rose higher yet, and free ! 

I sang of Order, Peace and Perfect Law, 

And from the garden of my soul I drew 

The sweetest flowers of Love to lay on sod 

Where sleep the men who found their peace in God; 

The .clay that wore the khaki and the blue! 



CRADLED MOONS 203 



THE HALLOWED STAR OF GOLD 



'Twas a little gray house by an old country road 

That attracted my notice to-day, 
For there hung in a window a banner, which showed 

A contrast most marked to its gray. 

There was one golden star on a centred white field, 
With a border, blood-red, as a frame. 

But oh! how it thrilled as its presence revealed 
A glory so worthy of fame. 

Like Jupiter's gleams at the first kiss of Night 

It glowed in my vision, and left 
In the deep of my soul the gold of its light 

To give to the hearts now bereft. 

And I saw in its beams, not the death typified. 

But, rather, the Hope of all hopes, 
The vision of Life across the Pivide, 

And the Door that true sacrifice opes. 

As the lightning reveals ere the dull tlumders grind, 

I glimpsed in a land far away 
The brave, stalwart men who were marcliing behind 

The Stars and the Stripes to the fray. 

And I singled from out the thousands who fought 
The lad for whom gold was displayed, 

And I noted a smile on his lips, and I caught 
A glance of his eyes, unafraid. 



204 CRADLED MOONS 



There, I saw liim enthused with the purpose of Right 

And the love of his Country's ideal. 
Go leaping to death in the thick of the fight, 

Forgetting liimself in his zeal. 

My vision was brief, but I saw him go down, 

Yet not in the throes of defeat, 
For I knew that such deatli but betokened a crown 

And a place in God's holy retreat. 

Then that single starred flag in the house by the road 

, Seemed hallowed and sacred to me, 
And oh ! how the gold on its white bosom glowed 
As it whispered this message to me. 

No, they are not dead, those who fall in the Cause 

That glorifies Strife, for they live 
In the Land of the Leal where the Infinite draws 

To Himself the life that He gives. 

Then my soul breatlied tlie words that my lips left 
unsaid, 

"O, God, burn this gold in my heart. 
And give me to teach in my song, and to spread 

The voice of this star through my art." 



CRADLED MOONS 205 



THE SERVICE FLAG 

A dingy old liouse, a tumble-down house 

I gaw in a ramble today, 
And rookeries 'round where the poor folk abound 

Were much in the very same way. 

The street was alive (a literal hive) 

With children, (the poor have the most) 

A slum is a shame for a city whose name 
Has been on. our lips as a boast. 

There I pondered this thought, as the fortunate ought, 
What if I had been born to these things. 

Were not homes on this street just as dear and as sweet 
As wliere money and power made kings ? 

Then my eyes caught a sight in the sun's slanted light. 

Of a Service Flag' over the door 
Of that dingy old house, that tumble-down house. 

And two were the stars that it bore. 

And I pictured a scene, a quite common scene. 

Inside of that house in the slums, 
I could see hearts of gold with a grief unconsoled. 

Though not with a grief that succumbs. 

I beheld in my mind, most clearly defined, 

A picture of kliaki-clad men 
Who brought to this house, this dingy old house 

The worthiest honor I ken. 



206 CRADLED MOONS 



Then I took off my hat to that flag^ for in that 

I saw the redemption of man 
Re-enacted in life, in a land rent with strife, 

And here was a part of the plan. 

From my innermost soul, inarticulate stole 
A prayer to the God whence all comes, 

To bless that old house, that dingy old liouse, 
That tumble-down house in the slums. 



TWO LESSONS 



I HATE;— 

And I would teach the hate I own 

Throughout my years of life. 

To all 

Who come within the reachings of my voice, 

The German will, the German mind, the German god. 

The god of avarice and power. 

The mind that seeks dominion for the hour. 

The will that has alone 

Transformed my peace to strife 

And made a hell of life; 

I hate, — - 

God, how I hate 

Tlie man responsible for Rheims, 

The PEWTER EMPEROR of hosts 

Called, and rightlv called, 

HUNS. 

The fool, who made liis boasts. 

And boasting, laughed 

In scorn 



CRADLED MOONS 207 



When babes and women sank in pierced seas, 

And then,^(the heiglit of infamy) 

Exalted with degrees 

His underlings who worked liis will, 

God ! I would teach 

My hate! 



I Love, — 

And I would teacli this love of mine. 

Through all the years to come, 

To those 

Who follow me and step witliin my fold, 

The principles tliat underlie the war 

Which the Oppressed is waging for the right. 

The ideals that dethrone the might 

This PEWTER EMPEROR acclaims; 

Ideals ; 

That Men are more than names, 

That kings are not divine, 

That nations weak, shall not be dumb 

And dance to rhythm of the drum; 

I love, — 

God ! How I love 

The men who freely consecrate 

And give their lives that Freedom's gleams 

Shall flood the world; 

Light 

That shall make the Deeps rejoice 

And Heaven smile once more. 

And oh, how I love that fellow thouglit 

That makes men great 

And brings 

Equality with kings, 

The Truth my Christ has taught. 

True life is Love. 

God ! I would teach 

Mv love ! 



208 CRADLED MOONS 



NO MAN'S LAND 

I've never been on No Man's Land, 

I've never crossed the sea, 
But Oh, I know that No Man's Land 

Holds treasures dear to me, 
I know that somewhere on its soil 

The richest jewels lie, 
And gold is there, — aye, gleaming gold 
For which men strive and die. 

I've heard men tell of No Man's Land, 

How jewels have been found 
By some of low estate, and some 

Of high, upon its ground. 
The jewels, that I long for most, 

And gold I fain would gain, 
But poets write, and pens are weak, 

For them to wish is vain. 

I've asked the men from No Man's Land 

The names of jewels there. 
And what's the worth of yellow gold 

That lies abundant there, 
And this is what they've answered me. 

They spake with bated breath. 
The jewels, "Courage, Honor. Hope, 

The price of gold is — Death." 

I cannot go to No Man's Land, 

But oh, my heart is there, 
I know what men have sacrificed 

To gain these treasures rare, 
My inner eyes can see their souls 

As shimmering mists of gold 
Kissed by the sun on No Man's Land, 

Their numbers are untold. 



CRADLED MOONS 209 



THERE IS BUT ONE 



The cditor-in-cliicf of Le Matin, the famous newspaper of 
Paris told in Boston the other day of a Catholic priest, an 
Episcopal clergyman and a Jewish rablil, who as chaplains lived 
together in a dugout. After a battle they divided the work of 
giving the last rites to dying soldiers without stopping to de- 
termine the religious affiliations of the fallen men. There were 
so many dying, and the time for giving them spiritual aid and 
comfort was so furiously short ! The French editor vouched 
for the story of a rabbi who held the crucifix to the lips of an 
expiring Catholic! It is a triumph of humanness to fling forms 
aside amid men gasping th-ir last breath. In such surround- 
ings the appeal of essential realities dwarfs mortal views and 
ways. To stay the passing soul on the supreme goal of all 
religions becomes the quick, mastering passion of any man with 
a heart in him. — From a Dally Paper. 



I have sung of blood and battle, 

Roar and rattle, 

Men like cattle 

Slain; 

And the daily News has vaunted 

Heroes who Death's blooms have flaunted, 

And who've borne with smiles, undaunted. 

Pain. 



And heroic deeds have thrilled me. 

Some have dared all Hell, and filled me 

With a wonder that has stilled me 

Quite ; 

But the brightest stars in Glory 

Dim beside those of this story. 

Men, but Christ-men, through the gory 

Night ! 



Let me tell my story simply, 
Let me tell it well. 



210 CRADLED MOONS 



Typical, and not a feature, 

Rabbi, Priest and surpliced Preacher 

Shared a "Dugout" home 'midst creature 

Men, 

Where the guns and shells were shrieking. 

All the Hates in War bespeaking, 

Oh, I see that marked, blood-reeking 

Den! 

There they labored with their brothers. 
Helped each other, and with others 
Ministered, and wrote to mothers 
Hope, 

Healed the wounds of flesh and spirit. 
Walked with Death, and did not fear it, 
Hand in hand with those who, near it. 
Grope. 

When one battle's rage was ended. 
Through the niglit these three attended 
Those whose wounds for them portended 
Death ; 

Time was short and moments fleeting. 
Who could tell what oreeds were meet'ng 
Life Eternal in retreating 
Breath? 

List to this, oh. Reader; listen 
Tell it to your kin at home. 

How the Jewisli Rabbi, ])ressing 
Crucifix to lips professing 
Papist hopes, and heard confessing 
Sweet ; 

Gave in Love God's consolation. 
Flung aside Man's figuration. 
Made ALL faiths in exultation 
Meet ! 



CRADLED MOONS 211 



Oh, the lesson in this story, 
ONENESS in men's death and glory, 
Fraternizing all our hoary 
Creeds ; 

Why not learn of this, my brothers ? 
Teacli it, oh, ye fathers; mothers, 
See the common God in others' 
Deeds ! 

Have I made my lesson plain ? 



AN APOSTROPHE TO FRANCE 

I cannot speak thy tongue, O, France, 

Nor can I boast as kin 

Of thine, 

Oh, that I could, 

God knows I would. 

For in the heart that beats within 

My singing breast, there rings 

The iron echoes of momentous things 

That proved thy soul, O, France. 

This joy is mine. 

To sing in alien tongue. 

But still to sing 

Of commonness with thee, with thine. 

For in thy horning sun of Freedom came 

The light that gleams in nascent hope 

Of men 

Who yet are bound by autocratic rule 

And gods of falsity and fear. 

Whose spirits seeming gro})e 

'Midst doubts and darkness drear. 

Whose leaders play tlie fool. 



212 CRADLED IMOOXS 



And oil, 

If I can but inflame 

My fellows with that holy fire 

That burns within thy breast. 

And spills from out its frame 

On Earth, and mounting higher 

Kisses the throne of Heaven, 

Then, — then will my song 

Be music worthy of thy name. 

Of Cause, thy life has blest. 

And I shall enter heaven. 

My debt to thee is still unpaid, O France, 

For me thy Maid of Orleans girt 

Her shapely form in cased steel, 

And taught that Country's weal 

Was mine ; 

My hurt, e'en death — 

To keep its starry banner bright 

Should be for me a glorious delight, 

And LaFayette, with kindred souls who. gave 

Under thy flag, themselves, 

To save 

P'or me and mine the liberties I claim. 

Taught me to see in other lands, my own, 

Taught me to feel that supine ease is shame, 

Nor that alone. 

But damned. 

And on that great and holy day 

When buttressed symbol of the despot's sway 

Was hurled to earth 

And peasants proved 

That men were men and not of lesser birtli, 

Then was mif status as a man made known, 

God make me worthv'of that dav. 



CRADLED MOONS 213 



And now, O, France, 

Thy potted soil 

Cries out to me, lest I forget. 

Four years, the Vandals, typified 

In Lust and Hate, 

Have sought to break thy Freedom's gate 

And scale the walls and parapet 

Of Liberty. 

Thy youth hath died 

Saving for me that which their fatliers gave, 

Finding their peace in shell-torn, shallow grave, 

And how ray blood doth boil 

When whispers of inhuman warfare float 

Across the sea 

To me. 

But oh, 

I know that in Time's fulness comes 

The Day of days, 

When France, God's France, brave France, 

Will echo with the triumph of tlie drums 

Tliat shall announce the vandal foe's retreat, 

Thy Cause upheld, the thief despoiled and fled, 

The glorifying pf thy worthy dead. 

The joyful rausic of returning feet 

Beating a freer dust than tliat 

Of Must, 

And ALL shall sing 

That song of triumpli witli its golden note. 

La ^Marseilles. 



214 CRADLED MOONS 

THE SUPREME GIFTS 

Written for Thanksgiving Day, 1918. 

The Spirit of the year 1918 tnkes counsel with the ghosts of 
the Past regarding Thanksgiving Day. 

Four Spokesmen for the ))ast; the Spirit of the heginning; 
the Spirit of the Christ-Birth vear, tiie Spirit of 1492 and the 
Spirit of 1861. 

1918 speaks; 

"They bid me tliankful be, whose sires marked 

And set apart a day of thankfulness 

And earnest prayer to the Eternal God, 

What, my good friends, have I to say of tlianks.^ 

My bruised soul was born amidst tlie cries 

Of anguished liearts in war-cursed lands ; — my nurse 

That held me on her breast, a monster, fierce. 

Her breath a blast of fire, her mother voice 

A crash that 'woke the echoes like a clap 

Of rasping thunder on the mountain tops, 

The seas on Earth, my habitat, run red. 

The hands of men are crimson stained and damp, 

I hear the cries of Hunger; Famine's brood 

Fights on the paths of War for sustenance, 

I see the work of countless years o'erthrown 

And Wisdom mad from quaffing wines of Power; 

Oil irony of words : of what say thanks ? 

The Spirit of the Beginning speaks; 

"Thou stripling of an Font's race, give thanks 

That thou hast found a world so fair to view. 

When I awoke to cataclysmic scenes 

The Universe was dark, the Sun was not, 

The moon, the stars, were merely Thoughts of God, 

The Earth I saw as but a shapeless speck. 

Clay to be fashioned to the Potter's will 

And notliing yet was whole, yet I gave thanks, 

Tliankful to be, — to be, — enough for me, 

Go stripling, go, and loose thine blinded eyes." 



CRADLED MOONS 215 



The Spirit of the Christ-Birth Year speaks; 
"My Peace I give to you, my Peace I leave, 
I found a world of dark and shame, a world 
Unworthy of the gift bestowed through me, 
I found the embers of an holy fire 
Smothered and almost dead, a world accursed; 
I found a people but a step removed 
From that beginning marking human life, 
I found a shallow world, a place of fools. 
Arid yet, despite of all, my singing soul 
Sang to the music of the stringless winds 
A hymn of thanks and prayer, for God sent Love, 
Go, find Him at the battle's front, at sea. 
Where men are found, where life is quick, where liearts 
Are eager with tlie liopes of better years, , 
Go, take my Gift anew, and then give thanks." 

The Spirit of lJfQ2 speaks; 
"Bound was I born, yet free I closed my time. 
Shackles I broke, and with them off, there came 
A revelation new to men whose curse 
Was fear of venture into unknown things. 
But, prompted by my whispered hope, there came 
An hunible soul, ('tis humbleness that leads) 
WHio made a Sport of Fear, who whipped th^ seas 
And opened doors long closed to coward hearts, 
My dying day was jubilant with praise, 
For, out of darkness I had urged a light. 
And I can see in tliine obscurity 
A borning man, supreme to be of fears, 
When Time's fruition calls him forth to act, 
A new Discoverer of Peace and Love, 
Go, search him out, and for this boon give thanks. 
That thou shalt nurse the hopes of future years." 

The Spirit of 1861 speaks; 
"Child of the Now, thy elder brother speaks, 
Harken to me and learn my song of praise. 



216 CRADLED MOONS 



I came when iron brands were burning white, 
I saw the flames of kinship strife arise, 
I marked the boundary line betwixt the Old 
And thy more wonderful and radiant New, 
I too, heard shrieks of Justice crucified, 
I saw the youth of men go down in blood, 
But I gave thanks, for I could see beyond, 
The triunipli of a Principle, made flesh, 
A Man of Sorrows making millions joy; 
Go, mark the principles that underlie 
' The clouded hours of thy portentous time, 
A vision glimpse of men transformed by fire. 
Of peoples saved by casting Self aside, 
A t)eity re-found through scourging war. 
Of reachings by the Low above the Great, 
A hate detlironed by a diviner Hate 
That only hates the base. O, Brother mine. 
Thine is the glory of transcendent thanks." 

The Spirit of 1918 in shamed penitence prays; 

"Mine is the shame, O, God of countless years. 

Forgive, forgive, the blindness of my soul, 

I thank Thee for the triumphs manifest 

Of Righteousness and Freedom, long in d,ark. 

Of fruited hopes from seeds in sorrow grown, 

Of glimpses of the Christ that War revealed, 

I thank Thee for the golden tints of dawn 

That herald Peace afloat on sliimmering wings, 

I thank Thee most that this great joy is mine 

To live as one created by Thy Will, 

And grant that future years shall learn from me 

A true conception of Thy gracious gifts. 

And may the transient hours, my fleeting ties 

Be eloquent with thanks and holy prayer. 

Amen. 
Chorus of Spirits of all the past years sing 
"Glory to God in the Higliest, Hallelujah!" 



CRADLED MOONS 217 



« 



THE MASTER GARDENER. 

From the seeds of Hate liave grown weeds of War, 

But God, with an infinite art 
Has grafted on them the flowers of Love 

That grow in the depths of His heart. 

And the fairest bloom of tliem all, is Hope, 

Its petals are tinged with red, 
But its centre is rich with a pillow of gold, 

The typified rest of the dead. 

On the rankest weeds grow the whitest buds, 

The blossoms that wait the Christ-kiss 
Ere they open their souls and awaken to see 

The sun in His garden of bliss. 

Oh, a rainbow was lost in a flower whose glow 

Illumines the hearts of the Free, 
And I saw in its deeps the whole world at rest 

With a Peace that forever shall be. 

Yea, a thousand blooms by the Master-hand 

Engrafted on weeds of War 
Have blossomed and blown, and the winds He rules 

Have scattered their seeds afar. 

From the seeds of Hate have grown weeds of War, 

But tomorrow, those wind-sown seeds 
Shall blossom in Love, and the whole round world 

Shall joy in the perfect meads. 



218 CRADLED MOONS 



THE SYMBOL LOVE CHOSE 

A RED CROSS POEM 

LOVE : — that sweet goddess of mercy 

Who liolds the whole world in her arms, 
Once sought for a symbol, whose viewing 

Would prove to all peoples her charms ; 
She searched in the mists of the morning, 

She reached in the deeps of the sea. 
And she swept the cerulean heavens 

To find if such figure could be. 

In the snow-turret mountains she hunted, 

She sought in the full of the moon, 
And she questioned the stars, but they never 

Could give her such wonderful boon, 
She read of the Ages their glory, 

Where the lights of Humanity gleamed, 
But not until Calvary's horning 

Came the picture of thoughts she had dreamed. 

There she found on that hill in the desert, 

(A desert of hearts, not of sands,) 
The emblem for which she was looking, 

The Figure of Love for all lands, 
The Cross of the transfigured Saviour 

All stained from the wounds as He bled; 
And lo ; the Creator had answered, , 

He gave her this symbol of red. 



CRADLED MOONS 219 



OUR FLAG 

Let the Sim of Morning kiss it, let the Evening sunset 
glow 

With a warmth of love and gild it ere it sets in depths 
below, 

Let the winds caress and fold it, let the stars in glory- 
shine 

On the emblem of Our Country, loved as your flag, 
loved as mine. 

Let the voices of our children sing the music of its soul, 
Chant its chorus O, ye people, till the mountain echoes 

roll. 
Sing and shout its hymn of Freedom, fling its spirit to 

the breeze 
Till the notes are caught and answered in the hearts 

across the seas. 

Let no thought or deed unworthy smirch its stripes of 

purest white, 
Let no stain of craven silence rob its red of lustre 

bright, 
Let no shame bedim the star-shine on its field of 

heavenly blue. 
For it's OUR FLAG, friend, it's OUR FLAG; Fm 

proud of it; — are YOU? 



220 CRADLED MOONS 



MY COUNTRY 

My Country is the World — the whole round World ; 
I scorn the boundaries of State, 
I hate the narrowness of Hate, 
The Empire-dreams of Would-be-great, 
The cabined soul, the shallow pate 
Of one-land folk I hate !— I hate ! ! 

My Country is the World — the whole round World; 
The soil, the mould-damp soil awakes 
The life in countless seeds, and makes 
An Eden of the blooms. The brakes 
That skirt the borders of the lakes 
Share in the life each bloom partakes. 

So I, a child of the whole round World, 

Share with the black in the tropic sun, 

With my brother-man where the ice-streams run, 

The gifts of the Master-soul, begun 

With the breath called Life, that made ALL one, 

With the Love that drew from oblivion 

The World— MY Country. 



THE SUNSET FLAG 

There was red in the sky at even, 

There were clouds of a fleecy white 
As the deep, blue dome of Heaven 

Was kissed by approaching night. 
There were stars in the eastern circle 

That blinked at the fading sun. 
And the distant shadowed hilltops 

Gave proof of tlie dark begun. 



CRADLED MOONS 221 



There was joy in my soul at even. 

For I saw in the dying day 
A picture the Master painted 

And set in the sky for aye. 
The glorious colors of Freedom, 

The Red of my Country's heart, 
The White of her pure soul-purpose, 

The Blue of her human art. 

And I saw in the Master's blending, 

My Flag and your flag, sublime. 
Outlined in the sky at even, 

Unfurled to the end of Time, 
And I bowed my head and worshipped. 

And prayed that my life would be 
A mirror, reflecting those colors 

God placed in the sky for me. 



TRUE PATRIOTISM. 

Not in the belching cannon's roar, 

Not in the piper's lay. 
Not in the flag which we adore, 

Nor yet in holiday; 
Not in the fulsome studied speech, 

Not in the pomp and show, 
Not in the rocket's sizzling screech. 

Nor in the fire's glow; 
But in the heart wliere doth abound 

A nobler, finer plan. 
Where Country's weal is tlie profound 

And holy love for man ; 
There is the future's heritage. 

There is our Country's hope. 
There doth the patriot's true gauge 

Confound the misanthrope. 



222 CRADLED MOONS 



BUILD ME A LODGE 

Build me a lodge in the mountain tops, 
Build 'midst the silences of night 

For me alone, 
Build where Hate's blistered war-gleaned crops 
Are lost in the intervals of sight. 

To me not grown. 

Build me a lodge in the swaying pines. 
Build where the unchained north-wind blows 

For me a song, 
Build where the sin in my heart's confines 
Finds grave that is deep in the riven snow. 

Yea deep and strong. 

Build me a lodge in the wilderness, 

Build where the birds of the morning come 

With pristine notes. 
Build near some cave-like rock recess. 
Some Nature-reared palladium 

That peace promotes. 

Build me a lodge 'midst the scraggy oaks, 
Build where the wind-swirled leaves are dead 

But not to me. 
Build where each minute twig invokes 
Tlie thought of the Cause in the overhead 

Infinity. 

Build me a lodge where the ages blend, 
Build where the yesteryears are one 

With present hours, 
Build me a lodge where the sky-deeps lend 
A glimpse of the endless All, begun 

Through Spirit powers. 



CRADLED MOONS 223 



THE UNFOLDING WILL 



I spake; lo, my voice was heard in Cathay, 

Oh, strange are the deeds of men! 

A dream from the past fulfilled, 
And a voice called out from that Far-a-way 

And answered me again 

Ere my own word-tones were stilled, 

Now the harnessed waves of the air-seas teem 

With the spoken thought of man, 

Oh, the great round world is small, 
No more shall men laugh at a poet's dream 

Since Mind has bridged the span 

That has separated all. 

And I've dreamed of the time that shall surely come. 

Whether in my day or not. 

All despite the skeptic's doubt, 
When the ether space as a medium 

Will carry our earnest thought 

To the planets round about. 

And I've dreamed beside of a future year 

When the visions of men are keen 

And Space shall its curtains raise, 
When the eye shall hold the far-friend near 

And the distant lands be seen, 

Yes, worlds by our finite gaze ! 



If the up-start clay hath dreamed and won 
Far more than mere dreams give rein. 
And the Earth holds secrets still, 

\s sure as there's light in the constant sun 
So sure shall all things be plain 
To man's dominating will. 



224 CRADLED MOONS 



THE BRAVEST MAN 

God ! but it takes a man to stand 
Firm as a rock midst troubled seas 
When doubts assail on every hand 
When friends depart and honor flees ; 
When foes exult and cowards sneer, 
When soft-lived men deny and rail, 
And even fools at wise men leer, 
He is a man who does not quail. 

God ! but it takes a man to be 

Calm as the deep when torrents roar. 

When some loved soul proves Pharisee 

And passes by f orevermore ; 

When Poverty stalks grim, and rules 

Because of principles, unshared. 

When Wrong, through precedent, befools. 

He is a man who stands declared. 



God ! but it takes a man who knows. 
And knowing, rights the age's wrong. 
Who stands alone and overtlirows 
The moss-back doctrines of the throng; 
When Piety deplores his might. 
And lifts its hands to out-grown gods. 
When pulpits rage and proselyte, 
It takes a man to stand the odds. 



God ! but it takes a man who moves 
Straiglit to the line marked to the goal 
When others follow time-worn grooves. 
When Custom's marks have seared the soul ; 
When otliers live in ease, and laugh 
The bravest man who dares, to scorn. 
When few will speak in Right's belialf. 
Then is the time when manhood's born ! 



CRADLED MOONS 225 



WHAT IS A FRIEND? 

(Two Answers) 

1. A friend is one soul which oft-times dwells 

Within two bodies, separate, 
And fills the deepest hidden wells 
With Love that's all compassionate. 

2. A "friend is two souls which make their nest 

Where one was wont to dwell before. 
The winds of hate cannot molest 
Nor blow defiance at their door. 



A PROVEN FRIEND 

A ])roven friend is like a gushing spring upon Life's 

desert drear, 
Tliougli the dead sands all-surround it, yet its waters 

fresh and clear 

Invigorate the soul ; 
We forget the shifting, burning sands, the ceaseless 

grind, the fear, 
Wlaen we dip and drink from Friendship's cup tlie 

heaven of man seems near 

Where Love is in control. 



226 CRADLED MOONS 



REALIZATION 

I have found a Poet; — 
I, who for long 
Have sought fulfillment of my heart's desire, 
A true companion to my singing lyre, 
Seeing the base and falsifying fire 
Leap into gorgeous flame, and die, — for hire ! • 
Straining my ears for harmonies of song. 
Seeking to prove the lesser singers' dream, 
Reaching for diamonds where I saw a gleam, 
Finding but meaner gems ; so few supreme 
Prayers in the poet's fane, some near blasjiheme. 

I have found a Poet ; — 

How my soul leaped 
With the winging music of her rliythmic beat, 
And yesteryears, (thought worthless, incomplete,) 
Like Hopes incarnate, march witli joyous feet. 
Whilst I, I follow on a golden street; 
O, Heart of mine, at last I've reaped 
In fulness, harvest of the planted seed, 
Food for my soul, sufficient for its need. 
And by the sluggish waters where I feed. 
My vibrant song is pulsed by singing reed. 



CRADLED MOONS 227 



THE JEWELED TREES 

There was snow on the streets at even, 

Though March was a full week spent, 
There was sleet in the air at even, 

Though passed was a half of Lent, 
When the kiss of a dying Winter, 

(God wot that its day's at end,) 
Yea, the kiss of a traitorous Winter 

Made the trees with ice to bend. 

And tlie sun of a glorious morning 

Awoke to a trillion suns 
That greeted the eyes of morning, 

(Those eyes not the only ones,) 
For the Poet, in rapture gazing 

Saw jewels in filigrees 
As entranced in his wonder, gazing 

On the ice-cased twigs of trees. 

There were lights in the jeweled ribbons 

Found not in the diamond's gleam, 
There were smiles in the ice-formed ribbons 

Like smiles in an infant's dream. 
There were sun-stones, opals and jasper. 

They were bound by threads of gold. 
Oh, the Poet has dreams of jasper. 

Of such were* the Walls, foretold ! 

And he saw in the scene a picture 

Of the jeweled trees of years. 
When a glimpse of each youth-lost picture 

Gleams forth from the crystalled tears. 
And the sun of anotlier Morning 

Reveals to a new-born sight 
The jewels that crown Heaven's morning 

When Life's storms have passed with night, 



228 CRADLED MOONS 



THE HOPES OF SPRING 

There's a mellow warmth in the soft south wind. 

When snows of the north have fled, 

The gods be thanked for Spring; 

(Thus we of the East-climes sing) 
There are no regrets for the days behind, 

But there's joy in the days ahead, 

Oh, joy in the Hopes of Spring! 

As an incense burned in a golden bowl 

Casts spells of divining power 

And opens the Future's gates, 

So the wind from the south creates 
A mystic spell o'er the poet's soul, 

A vision of tree and flower 

In bloom beside jasper gates. 

And the south wind brings to the poet's soul 
A dream of a golden strand, 
And mirrors the sun-sprite's smile 
Who dwells in the climes worth while. 

For the dreamer's dream marks the poet's goal 
In the days of the near-at-hand, 
'Tis the land where the sun-sprites smile. 



CRADLED MOONS 229 



O NOBLE DEAD 

O noble dead wlio rest beneath the sod 

Or sleep in peace below the surging sea, 
Whose souls are merged with the eternal God, 

Who know the truths of life's eternity; 
Whose deeds while in the finite, earth-born clay 

Gave proof to us of innate nobleness 
Which we, the living, recognize today 

With cliastened hearts through memory's bitterness 
We Iwnor thee. 

We plant the sweetest blooms upon each grave, 

We scatter blossoms o'er the ocean's breast, 
Remembering the toll of lives which saved 

Our country from destruction, manifest. 
We see again the cruel liand of Death 

Steal from our midst the fairest of the fair. 
And as we gaze in fear with bated breath 

We wonder, weep, and question in despair. 
And honor thee. 

O noble dead who died for Country's weal, 

Words are mere mouthings which cannot express 
The gratitude which we;, united, feel 

For your brave spirit of true nobleness. 
There is no Nortli, no South, no sundered twain, 

No mailed coat of blue, no garb of gray. 
But all are one, in unity again. 

All reverently keep this holy day, 
And lionor thee. 



230 CRADLED MOONS 



HALLOWE'EN IS HERE 

Gliosts.and spooks are floating round, 

Sh- , Sh , 

Move and flitter without sound, 

Sh , Sh , 

Doors are swinging to and fro, 
Bells are ringing soft and low. 
Tree toads croak and roosters crow, 

Hallowe'en is here. 



Witches riding through the air, 

Sh , Sh , 

Bats are flying everywhere, 

Sh^— , Sh , 

Old maids search the silvered glass. 
When the witching hours pass. 
Every year the same, alas, 

Hallowe'en is liere. 



Sweet girls cringing in mad friglit, 

Sli , Sh , 

Backing down the cellar flight, 

Sh , Sh , 

Peering in the musty gloom. 
Fearful lest some shape assume 
P'eatures of a hapless groom, 

Hallowe'en is here. 

Jack-o-lanterns bobbing past, 

Sh , Sh , 

Sheeted forms a-running fast, 

Sh , Sh , 

Wilted youths are diving deep 
Crab apples to bite and keep, 
Old folks losing beauty sleep, 

Hallowe'en is here. 



CRADLED MOONS 231 



AM I THANKFUL? 



I wonder if I'm thankful for the blessings that God 

sends. 
Am I thankful for my health, my home^ and all my 

loving friends, 
Am I thankful for my other self I've known for years 

as wife, 
Am I thankful for the children who'll perpetuate my 

life; 
Am I tliankful for tlie food I eat, and raiment that I 

wear, 
Am I thankful for the joys of life and happiness I 

share, 
Am I thankful for the birds and trees and sunny, 

smiling skies. 
Am I tliankful for the books I read, the ripe fruits of 

the wise? 



I wonder if I'm thankful for the life which I possess. 

Am I thankful that my soul is never steeped in bitter- 
ness, 

Am I thankful for the work I find each week day must 
be done, 

Am I thankful for the hope that's mine of honors to 
be won; 

Am I thankful for the tears I shed of sorrow and of 
pain, 

Am I thankful for each small success my humblest ef- 
forts gain ; 

Am I thankful for inspiring thoughts which elevate the 
mind, 

Am I tliankful tliat I'm liuman and like others of mv 
kind? 



232 CRADLED MOONS 

If I am not, oh grant, dear God, that in thy holy way 
Thou wilt implant into my soul a real Thanksgiving 

Day. 
Oh teach me how to sliow my thanks for- all which 

Thou dost give, 
That I may in tlie future years a thankful spirit live. 

Amen. 



THE HALLOWED HOUR 

No witch hath power to cliarm tlie hour 
Which marks our Saviour's hirtli, 

No eery ghosts, no armed lu>sts 
Of evil ride the earth. 
Hallelujah! 

So hallowed then, the time again, 

Tliat nauglit but pure thouglit tlirives. 

The dawn of day proclaims Love's sway, 
And good alone survives. 
Hallelujah! 

The angel's word which shepherds heard 

Hath been in truth fulfilled, 
Wliat wise men souglit this liour liatli brouglit. 

As God Himself hath willed. 
Hallelujah! 

Let Heralds sing that Christ is King, 

Go, demons, hide in fear, 
Your reign is o'er, and ever more 

The Saviour reigneth here. 
Hallelujah! 



CRADLED MOONS 233 



"THE SPIRIT GIVETH LIFE" 

"Not of the letter, but of the Spirit; for the letter killefh, 
hut the Spirit (jiveth life." — 2 Corinthians, III. <). 

Men spake to me of Christmas, — 

And I ; — well, I tossed my head 

And laughed, then sneering, said, 

"Christmas ? — huh ! — a pack of fools 

The whole of you ! — The rot of schools 

Of medieval time 

Is Christmas, — a pleasing mime 

To babish minds. 

Its tinsel blinds 

The eyes of Thought, 

'Tis rot, — rot, — all rot; 

And not for me ! 

Gifts, — baubles, — gold, — Christmas ! 

Wreathes, — holly, — symbolic waste ! 

Vice makes a show of seeming chaste; 

Yes ! — I've seen the weaved leaves 

Decorate the dens of thieves ! 

And hellish holes 

That steal men's souls 

Adorn their fronts with twisted green, 

That's what I've seen. 

You're fools ! — the lot^ 

'Tis rot, — rot, — rot,- — all rot 

And not for me !" 

God spake to me of Christmas, 

And I, — well, I bowed my head 

And prayed; and lo, the Man-Christ said 

Within me, "Thou art the fool! 

Not by the letter doth the Spirit rule. 

Men's outward show 



234 CRADLED MOONS 

Reflects the glow 

That lights their souls with God's own fire, 

'Tis His desire 

Men joy, — and fraught 

With Thought,— Thought.— God's Thought ; 

O, blind one, see!" 

My gift ! — I see in meanest toy 

The Wise-men kneeling to the Boy; 

I see behind the ribboned wreath 

That Vice has placed, the Prayer beneath, 

The tlirill of Hope 

In souls that grope. 

The unlocked Door that beckons, "Come!" 

The vice-burned heart's residuum ; 

The Soul Christ sought. 

In Christmas, sought; — And Tliought. — my thought, 

Has shamed me ! 



THE HOLLY THORNS 

Oh, Love is the soul of Christmas, 

And Hope is its message sweet. 
There is joy in the heart at Cliristmas, 

God speaks in a life complete. 
The children of men are singing, 

Oil, never such cause for song, 
And tlie light of the Babe is shining 

Through eyes of the happy throng. 

The log on the hearth is kindled, 
And a welcome is writ in fire 

For those who were gone a season 
And retvirned to their hearts' desire. 

The gleam of symbolic candles, 
The weavings of holly leaves, 



CRADLED MOONS 235 

Are the voicings of the spirit 
That ever to Christmas cleaves. 

Oh, there's joy, yes joy, in Christmas, 

But even the holly pricks, 
And the melted wax on candles 

Like tears falls from burning wicks. 
There are hearths where the log is dampened. 

There are homes where each pulsing breath 
Reminds of the soul whose Christmas 

Is spent in the arms of Death. 

There are voiceless prayers for courage 

To bear coming Yuletide through. 
There are yearning hopes for something 

To prove of the new life true. 
There are fathers and mothers and children 

That ask, and the echoes are still 
Save for ringing of bells and music 

That make for another's good will. 

There's a void in the heart of the poet. 

There's a break in the perfect ring. 
There's a minor note in his music, 

His fires are smouldering. 
There are tears when there would be laughter, 

There are poems of joy unsaid, 
For the song that was his last Christmas 

Is now but a dirge for the dead. 

Yes, Love is the soul of Christmas, 

And Hope is its message sweet. 
There is joy and there's pain at Christmas 

And ever the two shall meet. 
Though Love is o'er shadowed by sorrow, 

Yet Hope is still seen through fears. 
In the homes of the broken-hearted 

Where Christmas is one of tears. 



236 CRA13LED MOONS 



BELLS O' NEW YEAR 

To the rhythm of the breeze 

Ring clear O Bells, your swinging song, 
A burdened year has passed along, 
God grant the new will right each wrong 
And bring true joy to all, 
Yea, peace, good will to all ! 

To tlie beat of martial tread 

Ring bold, O Bells, your message now, 
Give hope to those wlio meekly bow 
To despots, lest a Freeman's vow 

Make Babylon to fall, 

And crush them in its fall ! 

To the blast of thunder guns 

Ring strong, O Bells, ring strong and clear, 
Let triumph notes awake the year. 
Ring freedom to the Huns who fear 
To break the tvrant's thrall, 
A cursed, stinging thrall. 

To the wliines of hurtling shells 

Ring loud, O, Bells, drown solemn tone 
Of Coward's dirge and Money's groan. 
Wake echoes that shall rock each throne 
And cause them all to fall, 
O, God ! that all would fall ! 

To the harmonies of Time 

Ring sweet, O, Bells, such music blends 
Eternity with Now, and lends 
Its peace to him who comprehends 
That men and years are small, 
And monarchs, too, are small. 



CRADLED MOONS 237 



A NEW YEAR'S THOUGHT 

What does the New Year hold in store for me, 

What hopes, what joys, what peace is mine to be? 

Will Providence, who holds the gauge of years 

Within the hollow of His hand, lend ears 

And heed my shallow importunities 

That this, the coming year, shall bend its knees 

To my imperious and boastful will, 

And ward from me each dark, impending ill ? 

I know not what the New Year brings, nor dare 

Attempt to read its portent scroll; if fair 

Its prospects are, I shall rejoice indeed. 

H storm clouds loom, shall I then cringe and plead 

For fairer skies? — God grant I'll play the man 

And take what comes, conformable to plan. 



THE UNKNOWN TREK 

Ye passed not this way heretofore, 

Prepare thyself for pleasant lanes. 
But if percliance thy Fate ordains 
Thy paths to lie 'midst arid plains. 

Go singing as a troubadour. 

Ye passed not this way heretofore. 

Prepare thy soul for mighty deeds, 

And e'en though Doubt-land's bog impedes, 

'Tis bridged by Affirmation's reeds 

Enough to reach Achievement's shore. 



238 CRADLED MOONS 

Ye passed not this way heretofore. 

Prepare thy heart for Heaven's bliss, 
But shouldst thou find its blessing miss 
And Sorrow greets thee with a kiss, 

Search out thy Hope-star's rays once more. 

Ye passed not this way heretofore. 
Prepare to live, prepare to die. 
Accept thy lot, nor question why ; 
The Dead Past land is left for aye, 

The unknown trek is thine, — explore ! 



THE MAN WITH THE FIXED IDEA 

Oh give me the man with the fixed idea. 

Who knoivs his world is round, 
Who sails the seas of doubt and fear 

And seeks till he has found; 
Who braves the tempests of despair. 

And flouts the scornful throng. 
Whose God is Hope, whose trust is Prayer, 

Whose idea can't be wrong. 

Oh give me the man who sees the goal 

Though distant, dim and small. 
Loom large to the eyes of his hopeful soul. 

Who never gives up at all. 
Who knows that beyond the doubter's zone 

A new world beckons "Come," 
I honor that man tliough he stands alone 

In social martvrdom. 



CRADLED MOONS 239 



THE SPIRIT OF GOD 

I thought I understood tlie gift 

Of drawing near to God, 
I tliought I knew the joyful bliss 

That comes from paths I've trod 
In spiritual ways, 

But I have found that gifts I own 

Are not like misted sky, 
But winged I.ove from souls that sing 

Their songs to such as I 

In Life's secluded day. 

I felt that God was near to all, 

But how, I could not know, 
I trusted blindly, seeming still 

To see no light below. 

But drifting clouds have shown 

The Spirit land in Heaven's sky. 

With joys that God reveals 
To those whose souls are one with Him 

Where each His presence feels 
And each is God's alone. 



THE WONDER-SPRAY 

Oil, there's joy in the spume and the wonder-spray 

That beats on the steamer's prow 
As it sails the seas on the homeward way 

To the land that the gods endow, 
For a Freeman's years 'neath a tropic sun 

Where the "Chinks" and the brown men thrive. 



240 CRADLED MOONS 

Are the years of "Must," with a thought but one, 

The hope to return alive; 
So there's joy in the spume and the wonder-spray 

As it mists on the fevered brow 
Of the traveller bound on his homeward way 

To the land that the gods endow. 



CUB LOVE 

I am thinking tonight of the sweethearts I had 

In my youthful, impressible age, 
And I laugh as I glance through Life's book at the lad 

Whose picture I see on each page. 



I remember quite well every sweet little miss 
Who appealed to a boy's tender heart. 

And ni never forget the first innocent kiss 
Which a maid of fifteen did impart. 



And on every page I can still read each name, 

Such sweet little forms I can see 
Standing out in relief, bold, distinct, and the same 

As when they spelled "ONLY" to me. 



The first one I note is a fairy-like face, 

With eyes of the lovliest blue, 
A form most divine and embodied with grace, 

A picture that's equalled by few. 



CRADLED MOONS 241 

I was but a boy of a dozen years old, 

Even then yellow locks and blue eyes 
Seemed to dazzle me more than could riches or gold, 

And my first love I did not disguise. 

But the "Angel of Death" came and stole her away, 

Life seemed but a blank then, at best, 
And though years have since flown, I remember today 

Her face and the wav she was dressed. 



But time rolls along, and cures all our ills. 

And a boy's heart, though cracked, can be patched. 

And my own, I'll confess, responded to thrills 
For another sweet girl unattached. 



I was fifteen or so, and slie was the same, 

I first saw lier when taking a dip 
In the old Baptist church, where the waters reclaim 

Poor sinners from Satan's tight grip. 

With her flowing white robe and her chestnut brown 
hair, 

Can you wonder that I did succumb.^ 
I felt that my fate was decided right there, 

Mv heart seemed to beat like a drum. 



Then some pretext I found to make myself known, 

I remember I "sinned up" to "Ma," 
And soon this young queen had ascended Love's throne. 

And seemed to be Love's ruling star. 



I smile now a bit as I'm writing tliis line. 
When I tliink of the first kiss I stole. 

As she said "No" to me in a manner divine. 
Yet helped me attain that sweet goal ! 



242 CRADLED MOONS 

I don't quite remember our drifting apart. 

Yet I know that another fair maid 
Soon usurped throne and love of that queen of my heart, 

And I to the new, homage paid. 

I really was smitten by Cupid this time, 

And love unreturned, was my fate. 
She looked like an angel from Heaven, sublime, 

But me she could not tolerate ! 

I sent some sweet roses on her natal day. 

There were eighteen, all pretty and white, 
And I really believe she gave them away 

And laughed at the sender outright. 

That's the way often times, what you want you don't 

get. 
Though tonight I can truthfully say 
'Tis well that I failed, for since then I have met 
The right one. who's Mrs. today. 

I can see in Life's book, full a score whom I tliouglit 
Would some day be cooking my meals. 

But betwixt you and me not a one in the lot 
For a moment to me now appeals. 

Some were light, some were dark, some were short, 
some were tall. 

And each had a charm quite apart 
From the rest of their kind, though not one had all 

Tlie things which appealed to my heart. 

And somehow I think as I look round and see 

Tlie loved ones who now fill my life. 
That God had ordained and given to me 

The best in the world for mv wife. 



CRADLED MOONS 243 



THE DAISY TOLD A LIE 

I asked a pretty maiden. 

So simple and so shy, 
If she thought that she could love me, 

If not, the reason why? 

She drooped her silken lashes, 

I heard a muffled sigh. 
And said, "Kind sir, this daisy 

Has told me not to try. 

Each petal, pure and spotless, 
From Heaven's dew scarce dry. 

Is blest with mystic virtues 
Which for true love apply. 

When torn from off its centre 

Of brilliant, golden dye. 
They answer me quite truly. 

All doubts they clarify. 

These fragile, scattered petals 
I plucked as you came nigh 

Proved from the love you offer 
My tender heart must fly." 

cruel, wicked flower ! 

As I gazed into her eye, 

1 saw the love-light gleaming. 
The daisv told a lie. 



244 CRADLED MOONS 



WHEN MARY MAKES THE BREAD 

When Mary makes the bread there gleams 

A glad, triumphant light 
Within her eyes which somehow seems 

To taunt me as I write. 

I see her with her sleeves rolled high, 

With gingham apron, neat. 
Her fingers deftly knead, while I 

Am marveling at her feat. 

A picture sweet she makes, I think. 

With flour on her nose, 
Her cheeks a glowing, wholesome pink, 

A-blushing like a rose. 

Her hair in ringlets soft and brown 

Adds beauty to the scene. 
What though there's dough upon her gown. 

Her heart. I'm sure, is clean. 

But poets are mere mortal men. 

And I am like the rest. 
For while these beauteous charms I ken, 

I like her product best. 

And though I tease and say she bakes 

Her bread as hard as stone, 
I'm mighty pleased whene'er she makes 

A batch of bread alone. 

And I am sure that you'll agree. 

That after all is said, 
And you have dined or lunched with me, 

Our Marv CAN make bread. 



CRADLED MOONS 245 

PREVARICATING MARY 

Mary told a little lie, 

It wasn't very wrong, 
And then she told another one 

To help the first along! 

The second was not very bad 

But paved the way for more. 
And soon to make her stories jibe 

Sweet Mary told a score. 

Like others who have tried this game, 

(I'm one, without a doubt), 
Our Mary learned that one fine day 

Her lies had been found out. 

Now what will little Mary do? 

Her stock of tales runs low. 
Perhaps the truth will help a bit, 

I hope it will prove so. 

For Mary is a real good girl 

Despite those naughty lies, 
She looks and acts quite innocent. 

And she has rougish eyes. 

And when she smiles (Lord bless my soul), 

I lose my head and heart, 
I quite forgive her stories and 

I lie to take her part ! 

I've wondered oft if when I die 

And climb the golden stairs. 
Will Peter turn his back on me 

Or listen to my prayers? 



246 CRADLED MOONS 

Will he condemn me for the lies 
Which I have learned to tell 

Because of her, this naughty wight 
And pack me off to — well 

I guess St. Pete will understand 
And pass me with a wink. 

If he but. sees Miss Mary smile 
He'd lie himself I think! 



ADVICE TO POETS 



Would you to poetry aspire, 

To make yourself a name 
And set the people's hearts afire, 

Make common words seem tame? 

Would you have folks to sigh, and say 
When words of yours they read, 

"How wonderful! how grand his lay!" 
And make your thoughts their creed? 

Would you* have clubs named after you 

To study and discuss 
The meanings hidden from their view ; 

Sav "this and that mean tlms" ? 



CRADLED MOONS 247 

Would you a monument have reared^ 

When laid away at rest? 
Would you to thousands be endeared 

Who'll think of you as blest? 



Would you have wealth in countless store 

Your work to compensate, 
And have disciples by the score 

Your life to emulate. 



Would you have kings and queens bow down 

Before your matchless wit, 
And by your poems win renown 

Ere you make your exit? 

If you would these things bring about, 
Have folks think you're immense, 

Just write your poems all without 
One particle of sense. 

Just make your meaning so obscure 

That scholars everywhere. 
Professional or amateur. 

To criticize won't dare. 



And thus will you win place and fame, 
Like Emerson and Browning; 

Remember they did just the same, 
Tlieir readers did the crowning. 



248 CRADLED MOONS 

TOLSTOI'S REPLY TO THE RUSSIAN 
CHURCH 

You urge me to repent — Aye, and of what 
Shall I repent? What evil have I done? 
Who is there from amongst the priestly throng 
Which has renounced me dares to say 
That I have ever spoken but the truth, 
That I have ever taught what was not so. 
Or that I e'er have stultified my soul 
Lor gold or gain? And yet you say repent. 

O, whited sepulchres, whose outward forms 

Are fair indeed for fools to gaze upon, 

Tear from your eyes that veil which hides the sight 

Of a new birth. A grand awakening 

Of people free, unshackled by my might. 

The bruised and shattered gods of ignorance 

Are lying all around, and only you 

Are blinded to the sight. — Tear off that veil. 

Behold in me a man by God ordained 

To preach liumility. and peace and love, 

To sacrifice, if need be, every thought 

But that which glorifies the lowly soul 

And makes the peasant of the moor a king 

As great as he who dons the royal robes 

Of earthly thrones. The thought that God is I>ove, 

And Love, not creeds, can save the peasant's soul. 

You urge me to repent. Of wliat, I pray ? 
Doth not the spirit of the truth I preach 
Cause you to blush and hang your head in shame 
To think that while I'm on my dying bed 
You dare ask this of me? Be gone, you dogs. 
Go fawn and kneel before the robes of state. 
But leave me witli my God. — I fear not death, 
I've nothing to repent. — YOU must repent. 



CRADLED MOONS 249 

OUR HOME IN THE WOODS 

Where the bii'ds in the spring of the year sweetly sing, 
Where oaktrees and maples are sighing, 

Where the bright, brilliant gleam of the tanager's wing 
Is seen like a meteor flying. 

Where the velvet-eyed deer romp from sunrise to dark, 
Where the sly, wicked fox shows his nose, 

Where the whole out-of-doors is as free as yon lark, 
Where you hear the shrill caw of the crows. 

Where the brooks gaily dance to their home in the sea, 
There are rough creviced rocks brown and bare, ■ 

Where you hear the dull buzz of the big bumble-bee 
As you track the wild-cat to its lair. 

Where anemones grow and the bright golden-rod 

In the Fall of the year doth abound, 
Where the old world seems rife with the spirit of God, 

Where the proof of His being is found. 

Where tlie soul is rejoiced by the evidence shown 
Of His goodness, in rock, tree and flower, 

WHiere you hear His voice speak in a thunderous tone 
When the woods are refreshed by the shower. 

Where the clear, placid lake doth invite you to rest 
On its banks with their mosses so green, 

Where the spotted brook-trout gives the fisher's sport 
zest, 
Where the dam of the beaver is seen. 

Oh, we envy them not, those whose souls are confined 

In the city's big mansions of stone. 
In our home in the woods there no limit you find. 

For all Nature's great world is our own. 



250 CRADLED MOONS 



THE CONFESSION 

We were both wrong; 
Eacli believed the other's eyes were blinded to the right, 
Each could see the other's faults, despairing at the 

sight, 
Each one seemed to doubt the good which once to them 

appealed. 
And, doubting, lost the joy which Love, when true, 

alone can yield. 
But now, thank God, the motes and beams have been 

removed at last, 
The metal base of yester-night, today as gold is classed. 
It took some strength, but now we know the bliss which 

candor gives, * 

Each heart's confessed, contrite, and thus, each for the 

other lives. 
And both are right. 



DEAR LITTLE SPRITE 

Dear little simple sprite, sweet little dimpled mite, 

Golden your tresses and fine. 
Eyes of the brightest blue, lashes of lightest hue. 

Lips that are treasures divine ; 
Smiles which supremely glow with lights that seemly 
show, 

Clieeks like red roses you own. 
Manners alluring, grand; voice softly purring, and 

Prettiest features I've known. 



CRADLED MOONS 251 

Long has a baby tot been my best "may-be" thouglit. 

One of the feminine kindj 
Heaven has sent me boys, the Lord has lent me joys 

Greater than most of men find; 
I'm not complaining, no, but love's remaining though 

For such a sweet little mite, 
You are the kind I own, I've had in mind alone. 

Dear little sw^eet dimpled sprite. 



THE LOVE LETTER. 

Thou art gone, my love, for a little while tliou saidst, 
Think'st thou my troubled heart to still by these thy 

words ? 
With thee an hundred mile and more from me, must I 
So patient wait against my will for thy return ? 
I never knew how dear to me were pure, sweet lips 
And tender eyes, and cheeks of rosy hue, but in 
Thy absence now I see more clearly all thy charms ; 
Like one who sees the fount of youth, and after youth 
Is gone, looks back and sees the beauties of his youth 
He valued not while j^et he had them for his own. 

I sit alone tonight, my love, thinking of thee. 
Though hard my lot might seem to be, I happy am. 
Thoughts in which thou art the queen, I, smiling 

courtier, 
Ready to lay my cloak for thee to tread upon. 
Are uppermost. Oh, would some aged, hoary sage 
Or learned magi read thy heart and truly tell 
If I may hope for future joy and bliss with thee. 
Come home, my sweet, my own, my life. Thou'lt surely 

come. 
And coming, end all my despair; and then I'll be 
Your king, your husband, slave, — and you — my wife. 



2.52 CRADLED MOONS 



MATRIMONY 

Matrimony, — is it bliss 
To surrender for a kiss 
And a love-pat now and then 
All the joys of single men? 

Matrimony, — is it joy 
Happiness without alloy, 
To surrender girlhood's life 
To become a drudging wife? 

Matrimony,- — why do men 
Once they're freed, repeat again 
Their mistake (if such it be). 
And forego their liberty? 

Matrimony, — why do wives 
Spend insurance from the lives 
Of the men folks to acquire 
More of love's consuming iire? 

But, my friends, what right have I 
Into such like secrets pry. 
Am I not a married dolt 
Witliout courage to revolt? 

Yes, and in my misery 
I'm as happy as can be. 
And I'm sure that I'd advise 
Matrimonv to the wise. 



CRADLED MOONS 253 

CHARLES DICKENS 

In Memoriam. 

Thou master of thought and depicter of" men 
Whose soul has been burned in the works of thy pen, 
Thy name is a lever which moves us again 
To honor thy memory. 

Humanity's friend and tlie Commoner's guide, 
Apostle of hope and simplicity's pride. 
Thy name sliall endure till the oceans subside 
And earth shows sterility. 

No marble cut deep or no labored stone pile 
Can fittingly tell of thy freedom from guile, 
No ode poets write can thy death reconcile 
To us of obscurity. 

Thou hast smitten the rock, and waters of Truth 
Have gushed like the fount of perpetual youth, 
The Apple of Life felt the print of thy tooth, 
Thou savant of history. 

All precedent's form thou hast blasted like rock, 
The pessimist's caves of despair felt the shock. 
Thy teachings of hope and thy sanguineness mock 
The false in philosophy. 

Great souls shall endure until eons of years 
Are gone like the mist and the earth disappears. 
And Infinite Grace to which thy soul adheres 
Gives thee immortalitv. 



2.54 CRADLED MOONS 

INDIVIDUALISM 

Oh, do you know a man wlio dares 

To climb the lofty mountain steeps 
Or swim the mighty ocean's deeps 
And breast the tide where'er it sweeps 

In spite of Hell. 

Oh, do you know that thoroughfares 
Of precedent are blazed by him 
Who rushes where no seraphim 
Dares e'en to tread the outer brim 

Lest some repel. 

Oh, do you think mistakes or cares 

Will swerve him from liis purpose high 

To make his efforts typify 

The nobler thoughts wliich underlie 

Each fearless deed. 

Oil, do you know not one compares 
To him who by himself alone 
Has made his name and deeds be known 
And e'en usurped the mighty's throne 

In times of need. 

Oh, do you know a man who bears 
Revilings and contumely 
Because he shows effectively 
His individuality 

In every task. 

If such you know in life's affairs, 
Go hail him as a citizen 
Of a free world whose noblemen 
To ruts and grooves are alien 

And seek no mask. 



CRADLED MOONS 255 



SUCCESS 

Success is in thinking and not in mere wealth, 

And notliing is failure unless it be liealth 

Tliat is wrecked by the worry and care in the strife 

For money and gain in the business of life; 

If we throw all our burdens and cares to the wind, 

Make the most of our joys, take the best that we find, 

Success is assured, though poverty's blight 

Has turned day-time hopes to the darkness of night. 

Tlie men witli the millions (which they've never earned) 
Are oft-times the failures when riglitly discerned, 
They're results of a system wliich gives to a class 
The fruits of the work of the dumb driven mass ; 
And the disgruntled folks who loudly inveigh 
Against those who have, are in much the same way. 
Success is not theirs, and never will be. 
Till they tliink riglit, and work for humanity. 

The man who produces deserves our acclaim. 
Irrespective of wealth, irrespective of name. 
Vain-glorious fools will say "Money talks," 
But the truest success sulMi sophistry mocks ; 
The simple "Well done," when merited, brings 
An honor which places its earner with kings ; 
And no man's a failure, nor can be, unless 
He measures in Monev his tliought of success. 



256 CRADLED MOONS 



THE LAST CRUISE OF THE WABASH 



List the clanking of chains and the wincli's shrill creak, 

"Heave Ho !" rings the boatswain's loud cry, 
The Wabash is sailing, a new berth to seek 

Where none but proud memories lie ; 
Tlie old ship looks not as in days when her deck 

Resounded with bold sailors' tread, 
Not the proud queen of yore, but a miserable wreck 

Bound now for the port of the dead. 



No funeral dirge, no salute from the shore, 

No cannon's quick bark marks her close. 
Ungrateful tlie land whose banners she bore 

In the days when she triumplied o'er foes. 
Men say that her timbers will go up in flame, 

The Junk-smith her priest and her friend, 
For a vessel that bears such a glorious name, 

O, God, what an end ! wliat an end ! 



The waves dance in joy as they welcome again 

Their comrade of days that are flown, 
Those days when she sailed with a crew of brave men 

And sought out the war's fiercest zone ; 
Her timbers are sound and respond with a will 

To the pulsating life of the sea, 
Oh shame on the man who can view without thrill 

The sight of her sad destiny. 



CRADLED MOONS 257 

Methinks I can hear in the depths of her hold 

The moans of her heroes who bled 
For Freedom's great cause when War's thunderbolts 
rolled 

And her decks were like rivers of red; 
Oh the hell then on board, — how the cannonballs flayed 

That old craft, yet no tinge of defeat 
Marred her fame as she fought, undismayed, unafraid, 

The bulwark of a wooden fleet. 



We prate much of peace, but such vessels as she 

Alone make our peace firm, secure, 
For peace-builders are they who are masters of sea. 

And our navy makes peace doubly sure ; 
But the heart weeps and bleeds when some time-honored 
hulk 

Meets a doom ill-befitting her name. 
And is sold to be burned for the metal in bulk 

Which rivets the joints of her frame. 



O Angels on high, hide your faces and blush 

For an ungrateful peojile who heed 
Not the glorious past, but who foolishly rush 

To acclaim some new hero or deed ; 
Are men deaf to the cries that I hear in her hold.'' 

Can't they picture the forms of her brave.'' 
Are they blinded by wealth and its symbolic gold 

And care not the Wabash to save? 



Too late, noble ship! clank your chains, spread your sail, 

Bon Voyage, and peace to your soul, 
I would that the gods might send you a gale 

To prove that your timbers are whole ; 
I would that you'd find in the depths of the sea 

A grave for your age-ridden frame, 
But whatever betides, your grand history 

Will go down in the annals of fame. 



258 CRADLED MOONS 



TO THE MARCH WINDS 

Blow, ye March Winds, — blow fiendish-like, blow, 

What demons are riding with thee ? 
Who calls from your depths as ye rush to and fro 

"O Poet, come, come and be free, 
Free — free — free, 

O Poet, come, come and be free." 

Fain would I ride on your swift winged crest. 

My soul yearns to travel with thee. 
But suckling I am on Mother jEarth's breast. 

Too weak, oh too weak to be free. 

Speed soft on your way, goad me not as ye fly, 

Gods ! must I stop here and be 
A weakling, a babe in Eternity's eye.'' 

Not yet, oh not yet to be free. 

Shackled and bound with the earth-ties I stay. 
Fate's pawn, still my heart envies thee. 

When Death breaks the bonds I will up and away, 
I'll come, yes I'll come and be free, 

Free — free — free. 
I'll come, yes, I '11 come and be free. 



CRADLED MOONS 259 



'CAN ANY GOOD THING COME OUT OF 
NAZARETH?" 

In this day of book and brain. 

When to precedent we liark, 

And the school and college reign 

As a mighty oligarch, 

'Tis the rule to look askance 

On the efforts of the soul 

Who has never had a chance 

To autograph a college roll; 

And the query, "Can it be 

That outside the learned's zone 

Is a strange anomaly 

Lifting up his voice alone, 

Daring to demand a share 

Of the honors to be won 

In the world's great thoroughfare 

Open to each noble son?" 

Such a crime to contemplate 

Is more than poor mortal mind 

Can in reason palliate 

In the meanest of its kind. 

E'en the lowly Nazarene 

Should He come on earth once more, 

Would be ostracised I ween 

As in those dark days of yore. 

If He could not boldly tell 

Where He'd taken a degree, 

If He was a B. E. L., 

Or a learned EL. D. 

Mediocrity's the same 

In the crafts or in the school. 

And they cannot change its name 

When they educate a fool. 



260 CRADLED MOONS 

And the thought that nothing great 
Emanates from common men 
Lest they be a graduate 
Of some college which we ken, 
Savors of the Pharisees, 
Whited sepulchres which did 
In their outward beauty please 
Yet within tlie dead bones hid. 

O you holders of a scroll, 
Made of sheepskin and engrossed, 
Search into your inmost soul. 
Ask yourselves if what you boast 
As an evidence of power 
Is not rather foolish, vain, 
And the great men of the hour 
Are the ones who by their brain 
Have made good despite this fact 
They've not taken college course, 
And their learning and their tact 
Came from quite another source. 

Give the restive soul the right 
To express its hidden thought, 
Seek to stifle not the might 
Which obscurity has wrought. 
God's and Natur-e's ways are strange, 
Neither owns man's barriers 
When they seek to best arrange 
Time and place and carriers 
Of the things which shall enlarge 
]\Iankind's mind and intellect, 
Many of their plans they charge 
To the lowly to perfect, 
And they question not at all 
If a school or college lent 
Lustre to the one they call. 
To be fame's recipient. 



CRADLED MOONS 2G1 



DEO GRATIAS. 

The gates of death yawned wide, my love, 

To claim thee for their own, 
Witli bated breath, I tried, my love, 

To stifle tear and groan. 

My bleeding soul cried out, my love, 

So helpless there was I, 
For God's control throughout, my love, 

I would not have tliee die. 

The words I prayed were few, my love. 

But steeped in anguished gall. 
And undismayed were j^ou, my love. 

And bravest througli it all. 

My prayer was heard, thou'rt still my love, 

God bade grim death depart. 
And by His word, His will, nw love. 

He eased my chastened heart. 

Tliou'rt more to me tonight, my love. 

Than e'er thou wast before. 
And it shall be my riglit, my love. 

To have thee evermore. 



2()2 CRADLED MOONS 



HE KISSED THE LIPS OF AMBITION 

Oh, lie kissed tlie lips of Ambition, 

For the jade was sweet and fair, 
Oh, he kissed the lips of Ambition 

With never a burdened care, 
For his blood was hot with yearnings 

To do, and to be, — and then 
To feast and to laugh with his earnings 

And buy of the power of men ! 

Oh, the jade was as fair as Morning, 

Youth's kiss was returned with smile, 
He saw not the clouds aborning 

Nor searched in her eyes for guile, 
And he laughed, oh, he laughed, when neighbors 

Advised with their lips, "Beware!" 
For Ambition had piped to his labors, 

Yes, the jade was sweet and fair! 

Oh, lie kissed the lips of Ambition; 

The time of his youth was spent. 
Then he damned the lips of Ambition 

For his youth's impoverishment. 
For the hag of wisdom bereft him. 
And the wealth that he earned, she flung 
To the four winds of Earth, and she left him, 

A broken down reed, unsung ! 



CRADLED MOONS 263 

CHERRY TIME 

'Tis cherry time, ripe cherry time. 
Such sweetness lends itself to rhyme, 

I give to thee, my favored one, 
A few I gathered, ere the sun 

Had warmed the breezes of the day, 

When red tints streaked the bluing gray. 

The clustered fruit with mellowed hearts 
Now ripened by the warm sun's arts, 

With ruby tints of June-time red 
Hangs temptingly from overhead. 

Inviting all, — who can resist? 

Not I, such joy should not be missed. 

The robins red, the blackbirds sly, 

Tlieir cherry tastes now gratify. 
And other birds, like wing-ed thieves 

Dart in and out amongst the leaves, 
I emulate them in a way, 

But take far more, in fact, than they. 

To me the ripened cherries bring 

Sweet recollections of my Spring, 
When youth and joy went hand in hand, 

When barefoot bo}"^ I roamed the land 
And fed on cherries wet with dew, 

Some black, some red, all luscious too. 

And I remember, oh, so well, 

A little miss who used to dwell 
Close to my wliite-limed country home, 

Who oftentimes with me would roam, 
A raptured symphony in blue, 

I've not forgot, sweet one, 'twas you! 



264 CRADLED MOONS 

And once I climbed a cherry tree, 
While you stood gazing up at me, 

With apron held outstretclied, I knew, 
To catch the cherries that I threw, 

And though naught but a boy as yet, 
I threw my heart into that net ! 

You ate those lip-red cherries all. 

My heart you thought a pit-stone, small, 

You must have thrown it to the wind, 
I've hunted oft, but ne'er could find, 

Mayhap these cherries from my tree 
Will serve to bring a lieart to me. 

Each one I plucked had been dew-kissed, 
An omen fair from Morning's mist, 

Each one my kiss, each kiss a prayer 
From lover lips for strengtli to bear 

A separation, seemingly 

Without an end, alas, to me ! 

Each reddened spot a blush of shame. 

Each blush a taunting look of blame 
To me, for letting years depart 

Ere seeking bliss within your heart. 
Their ruddy cheeks reflect the glow 

Of kisses warm, I did bestow. 

'Tis cherry time, ripe cherry time, 
Oil, may I know the bliss sublime 

Of matching cherries to your lips. 
And take anew our youthful trips. 

The finest fruit Love ever grew 

I'll pick and give sweetheart to you ! 



CRADLED MOONS 265 



THE GREAT MUSICIAN 

As the mottled shadows of the maple leaves 

Flick in the light of tlie clear, limpid moon 

And dance to the songs wliich the wind doth croon, 

So flick the shadows of fame ; 
But like the shadow which close interweaves. 
That of the trunk which never doth move, 
So standest thou in our memory's groove. 

And ages will thee acclaim. 

As the rhythmic music of thy wondrous mind 
Awoke in men's hearts new, responsive chords. 
Thrilling like wine spilled from heavenly gourds, 

So wakes to thy worth at last 
The dull, sluggish hearts of the mortal kind. 
Which, drowsy with tunes from the unskilled hand 
Were nescient to strains of the infinite brand 

That came from thy treasures vast. 

As the carping critics of a carnal age 
Derided thy worth and caviled at thy best. 
Doubted thy might and damned thee with a zest, 

So all great minds have been slurred; 
But now thy defamers are gone from Life's stage. 
Their words are forgotten and scattered like chaflf, 
No music they wrote on Eternity's staff. 

But thine will ever be heard. 



206 CRADLED MOONS 

NO MAN CAN ESCAPE 

No man can escape from a woman's love 

When once such a love has been given, 
No refuge as safe as a woman's heart 

For a life tliat's been cruelly driven, 
And the winds of hate and the storms of pride 

Are broken and scattered like spray 
When a man returns and a woman forgives 

Tlie errors which marked yesterday. 

No man can escape from a woman's prayers 

No matter how far he may go, 
For God answers prayer and the methods He takes 

Are strange to us mortals below. 
When prayers mix with tears and sorrows with love, 

And souls that are burdened entreat, 
There's something that moves man's hardness of heart 

And urges- repentance complete. 

No man can escape from the love he has felt 

For tlie children he brought into life, 
No matter how long he's estranged from their thouglit 

Through sin and its consequent strife; 
For there's something divine in man's love for his child, 

There's something that makes its appeal 
To his innermost soul and moves him to show 

The love which a father can feel. 

No man can escape from himself tliough he aims 

To forget or deny wicked deeds, 
He may outwardly sliow to the world a calm mien. 

But within his heart silently bleeds ; 
No bandage save Love can staunch mem'ry's wounds, 

No friends can displace kinship's ties, 
The love of his own, their prayers and liimself. 

No man can escape if he tries. 



CRADLED ISIOONS 267 



THE THINNING RANKS 

The bugles sound, tlie rolling drums 

Have signaled break of day, 
Arise, O comrddes, and again 

Greet this Memorial Day; 
Attention, fall in line and count, 

One, two, tliree, four, begin ! 
And answer to tlie roll-call now, 

O God, the ranks are thin ! 

Where's Smitli who fought at Seven Pines? 

Wliere's Jones who was with me 
At Gettysburg for three whole days 

And saw the rout of Lee? 
What, dead? No, boys, it can't be true. 

They marched with us last year, 
Tliey seemed as well and strong as I, 

I thought they'd sure be here ! 

Old Adams gone? And Sergeant Green? 

And full two score or more 
Who answer not pnto their names 

As in the days of yore? 
All dead, and lying 'neath the ground? 

Yes, boys, it must be so. 
Or else they'd march with us today 

And answer "Here," I know. 

I fear me, boys, it won't be long 

Before our time will come. 
We'll have to recognize the call 

When Death shall beat the drum. 



208 CRADLED MOONS 

Our ranks are few, and fewer still 

Another year will find, 
It won't be long ere not a one 

Of us is left behind. 

But while we're here, O comrades, show 

Our colors all unfurled, 
God bless that flag; we saved it, boys, 

It's honored o'er the world. 
And once again today we'll think 

Of those who fought and died 
To keep our Union all intact 

And bled on Freedom's side. 

Now, forward march; riglit shoulder arms. 

Forget your years again. 
The band leads on; acquit yourselves 

Today like valiant men. 
Another year, maybe, we too 

Will sleep in Mem'ry's bed. 
But here today, we're privileged 

To honor noble dead. 



THE TIME TO BE CROSS 

The time to be cross is when you have found 

That some petty trouble has made 
You forget for the nonce all else but the wound 

And rightly or wrongly upbraid; 
For nothing is gained by anger or pride. 

They both should be hid on Time's shelf. 
And if you give way when troubles betide 

It's time to be cross — with i/oursclf. 



CRADLED MOONS 269 



"THE KEEPER OF THE SPRINGS" 

Wlio is the keeper of the springs? He that guards and 

well 
Life's glorious fountain source of which the ages tell 

And none hath found ; 
Who sends the waters down the mountain slopes, to fill 
The river's bed, the brooks, and holds them back at will 

From flooded ground. 

Who is the keeper of the springs ? Who fills life's golden 

cup 
And gives to thirsty souls that piead a measure or a sup 

Nor doth withhold? 
Who keeps youth's valleys green, and makes the snows 

of age 
Revitalize the earth and a new birth presage 
Where naught grows old? 

Who is the Keeper of the springs Who knows that 

millions are 
Dependent on His love and view Him from afar 

As One supreme ? 
Who watches clouds and rain and dams -the surging sea 
Of restless unborn life, and makes Eternity 

An endl^s stream? 

God is the Keeper of the springs. He dwells on lofty 

heights 
Unseen by mortal man until Death's sunshine lights 

And closer brings 
His mountain lodge to view, and eyes of Faith descry 
The bounteous source of good in which men's futures lie; 

God keeps these springs. 



270 CRADLED MOONS 



MY HEAVEN 

I had a dream, sweetheart, last night, 

The strangest I have known, 
I dreamed my soul liad taken flight 

Into a boundless zone; 
It seemed as if each finite cord 

Which held my soul below 
Had parted strands and I had soared 

To realms no mortals know. 

No wings I owned, but yet I flew 

Through countless miles of space 
Impelled by some great power which drew 

Me towards a gorgeous place ; 
I saw four walls of purest white 

Capped with great blocks of gold, 
And all gave forth resplendent light, 

'Twas marvelous to behold. 

And in the walls I saw a door 

With locks of burnished brass, 
And o'er its top these words it bore, 

"None but the poor can yass." 
I knew straiglitway tliat this must be 

The heavenly liome of bliss 
Which every mortal longs to see 

And no one wants to miss. 

And glad was I to reach that place 

Which knows no eartldy pain, 
I felt quite sure that in my case 

Such poverty was plain. 
I boldly knocked and waited long 

Before I heard a sound, 
I wondered what there coidd be wrong. 

Why no one was around. 



CRADLED MOONS 271 

But finally the hinges creaked, 

The door an inch did stir, 
And from behind St. Peter peeked 

And said, "What would you, sir?" 
I answered, "Peter, I demand 

An entrance now within, 
A penitent and poor I stand, 

I'm free from riches' sin. 

A wealthy poet never breathed, 

The fates have so ordained. 
My rhymes alone I have bequeathed 

To those who have remained." 
St. Peter looked on me askance 

And said, "Pray tell me this. 
If ever by the merest chance 

You've tasted Heaven's bliss." 

"Why, yes," I said, " 'Twas when I heard 

My sweetheart whisper low 
A single, solitary word, 

And saw her blushes glow. 
And felt her sweet lips pressed to mine, 

And knew she cared for me 
With a pure love almost divine, 

'Twas bliss if such could be." 

Again St. Peter to me spake 

And said, "Go back, young man ! 
You've made a terrible mistake. 

Go back while yet you can ; 
For you there is no greater bliss, 

In here or anywhere, 
'Twas heaven you left, a sweetheart's kiss 

Is wealth beyond compare ! 

You are too rich to enter here. 

There's nothing new within 
To compensate for that I fear. 

If I do let you in; 



272 CRADLED MOONS 

Go seek your heaven from whence you came, 

I cannot give you more, 
I wisli that I could liave the same;" 

With that he shut the door. 

And then it seemed as though I fell 

Back to the earth again, 
And then awoke all sound and well 

Amidst the haunts of men. 

I wrote this dream because, my dear, 

It taught that naught above 
Contains such bliss as I've found here, 

The Heaven in your love. 



TO AN AUTOGRAPH FIEND 

Oh, "What's in a name.''" There is little I ween, 

In my autograph wherever 'tis seen, 
When compared with the names of tlie men who have 
made 

Success of tlieir labors in tasks they've essayed. 
You can conjure with theirs, and the world will applaud, 

But mine's only known to myself and my God. 
Yet I hope and aspire to carve bold and strong 

A niche in the future by rhythmical song, 
And mayhap, my friend, posterity's fame 

Will accord its bright lustre to me and my name. 
So in hope of that day my own I'll append 

To the long list of poets which ne'er seems to end. 
I feel honored, I'm sure, by your kind request, 

And herewith inscribe my poor name with the rest. 



CRADLED MOONS 273 



MY GARDEN OF BLIGHTED HOPES 

I sowed in the hours of Life's morning 

The seeds of my purest, desire, 
While the glorious tints of the dawning 

Reflected Ambition's green fire ; 
I ploughed through rough fields of dejection, • . 

I harrowed through toils of despair, 
My garden I tilled to perfection, 

'Twas ready for blooms it might bear. 

I hoped for a prime's early reaping 

Ere suns of the advancing years 
Should dry up the springs in my keeping 

Or salt their sweet waters with tears; 
I hoped for a harvest transcendent, 

Surpassing the world's finest yield, 
I prayed that success be attendant 

And prove my best work in Life's field. 

I recked not of ice-blasts and hoar-frosts 

Which swooped down from Doubt-land's high hills, 
Of blossoms and fruits by the score lost 

Through Hate that so ruthlessly kills ; 
I dreamt not of Drouth's cruel burning, 

Of pests of the sycophant brand 
,Which came in a cloud on discerning 

The sprouts bursting through on my land. 

I saw not the hail-stones of Habits 

Beat down and destroy tender shoots, 
I thought not that Passions like rabbits 

Would tear up my best by the roots ; . 
I knew not that Poverty blighted 

And ate like a cankerous worm, 
Nor saw I that Envy incited 

The weeds and the tares to root firm. 



274 CRADLED MOONS 

Life's evening has now settled o'er me, 

My garden is desolate, bare, 
The Reaper called Death stands before me 

And claims good and bad for his share; 
My swan-song of Failure I've chanted, 

My spirit is broken, and gropes 
Through the memories of years when I planted 

In mv garden of Blighted Hopes. 



THE POET'S ART 

The secret of a poet's art 

Is thinking well what he'd impart 
To those who by design or chance 

Will o'er his lines and verses glance. 

A poem without sense or thought 

Is wasted work and good for naught, 
The meanest rhyme is justified 
If simple truth it doth provide. 

The highest type of verse that's known 
Is that where mirrored love is shown, 
The reader sees reflected bright 

The thought which prompts a man to write. 

I sometimes think that poets are 
True oracles who but unbar 

Tlie prison gates of fettered Time, 

And loosen doubts tlirough portent rhyme. 

• 
Dame Nature never lent a song 

To him whose heart and thoughts were wrong, 
And only those who feel can sing 
The sublime verse with truest ring. 



CRADLED MOONS 275 



THE SETTLEMENT OF WOLLASTON 

Where the gentle breezes blow 
From the waters of the bay, 
Where the moon's soft, mellow glow 
Can be seen at close of day; 
On the hills that look afar 
Over land and over sea, 
There is naught that e'er can mar 
Nature's sweet tranquility. 

There from W^ollaston's great heights 
One can see the twinkling flash 
Of the myriad harbor lights 
Showing where the breakers dash; 
Where the islands' vernal green 
Looms against the ocean's blue. 
Each a seeming Neptune's queen, 
'Tis in truth a noble view. . 

Rising proudly 'gainst the skies 
Yon stone tower, lofty, grand, 
!Massiveness that amplifies 
Beauties of a pleasant land ; 
Roses wild and flowerets rare, 
Noble elms and maple trees 
In profusion everywhere, 
Tempting man to live at ease. 

Homes and schools upon the liill. 
Churches with their pointed spires, 
x\ll a power to instill 
Healthy thoughts and pure desires; 



276 CRADLED MOONS 

Such a spot I have in mind 
On the shores of Quincy Bay, 
Nature's work by man refined, 
Such is Wollaston to-dav. 



Scarce three hundred years have flown 
Since the good ship "Charity" 
Anchored by this land unknown, 
Land of virgin purity. 
Boisterous sea and stormy wind 
Here were stilled, and quiet reigned. 
Mayhap God Himself designed 
All this beautv unrestrained. 



List the shout of rapturous joy 
From an hundred lusty throats, 
Happiness without alloy. 
Orders come to man the boats. 
Hear the sharp a;nd. quick command, 
"Loose the davits, take the oars, 
Captain Wollaston will land 
On these bright, inviting shores." 



Standing in the foremost prow, 
Folded arms, majestic mien, 
With a high and classic brow. 
Captain Wollaston is seen. 
Nature moulded him from clay 
Different from the common lot, 
And in moulding threw away 
All the things which pleased her not. 



CRADLED MOONS 277 

Cared lie little for high Art 
Science or Philosophy, 
Such things were to him a part 
Of the learned's sophistry ; 
Church nor school could him entice, 
Nature's world had taught him more 
Which to his mind did suffice. 
Seaman's craft and woodsman's lore. 



Fearless both of man or beast, 
Never letting insult pass, 
'Quick of wit and at the feast 
Drained he dregs of the strong glass; 
Popular with his motley crew, 
Loved by them both one and all. 
King James' enemies he slew 
In pitched battle or in brawl. 



'Mongst the men who followed close 
Was a man who's passed to fame 
By his ribald jests, jocose, 
Thomas Morton was his name ; 
Rascal, yet a brilliant knave, 
Happy, jolly and care-free. 
Handsome, swagger, withal brave, 
Bacchanal in revelry. 



Once a barrister was he, 
Corkscrew curls and powdered pate 
Seemed with him ne'er to agree. 
Laughed he at the magistrate. 
Destined was he to impress 
On the Future's scroll of life 
Records of his idleness. 
And his quarrelings and strife. 



278 CRADLED MOONS 

Hark ! the scraping of the sand 
As they pulled up on the beach. 
Thankful once again to land, 
Hear the joyful shouts of each. 
Weeks of sailing on the sea. 
Sky above and deep below, 
Proves a dread monotony 
Such as only sailors know. 



Bounding lightly up the hill. 
With his sword of shining steel, 
Wollaston ran with a will, 
Others following at his heel. 
Planting England's ensign high, 
Double crossed and bloody field, 
Claimed he all one could espy. 
Nature's treasures here revealed. 



"By the might of good King James, 
This fair spot shall henceforth be 
Called the fairest of all names. 
Mountain Wollaston for me. 
Other titles I abjure. 
This shall be my monument, 
Ever shall this name endure 
Till the days of time be spent." 



Cheer on cheer from them resounded. 
Islands echoed back the call. 
And from neighboring hills rebounded 
Answering echoes to them all. 
Ruddy wines from far-off Spain 
Here were quaffed to piquant toast, 
And each pledged him to maintain 
England's right to this fair coast. 



CRADLED :M00NS 279 

There upon the hill's green crest 
Tents were pitched, and ere the sun 
Sank beneath the golden west 
Future's history had begun. 
History which never will 
Lose its charm for those who grope 
Through its pages, there to fill 
To its brim the cup of hope. 



Tired men perforce must sleep, 
Nature claims rest as her due. 
If man would his vigor keep. 
This trite fact the Captain knew. 
Sentinels he placed around. 
Soon the camp in slumber lay, 
Stretched upon the grassy mound. 
Sleeping till the break of day. 



Ere the moon had climbed in sight 
Watches, too, sought rest's relief, 
And none saw by its dim light 
Aberdecest, Indian chief. 
With a smile, disdainful, fierce, 
W^atched he from his hiding place, 
Eyes that seemed the night to pierce 
Gleamed from out his painted face. 



Fain would he have driven them 
From the spot which they had sought. 
By each cunning strategem 
Which his savage nature taught. 
For this place was hallowed ground 
To the simple child of earth, 
Hallowed was the country round. 
It had been his land of birth. 



280 CRADLED MOONS 

And in peace his mother lay 
'Neath the sod upon this hill, 
Ever since the awful day 
When the plague did thousands kill. 
Well for Wollaston's small band. 
As they slept that night serene, 
He had felt the mighty hand 
Tliat has stopped his tribe's rapine. 



Old moons counted now a score 
That had cradled in the new 
Since on Wessagusset's shore 
Mighty chiefs Myles Standish slew. 
When fierce Wituwamat died 
With the great chief Pecksuot, 
He himself was forced to hide, 
Fearful lest he too be caught. 



And his eyes blazed out with fire, 
Vengeance cried out for surcease, 
For the wrongs which caused his ire 
By the men from 'cross the seas. 
Did not wicked Captain Hunt, 
When he sailed New England's coast, 
Steal from him with cruel taunt 
The one tliina; he loved the most.'' 



Stole from him his only child. 
Then almost a full-grown brave, 
Forced him from his native wild, 
Sold him for an abject slave. 
As these thoughts flew o'er him now, 
Aberdecest sought to slay 
Or to drive away somehow 
All who now before him lav. 



CRADLED MOONS 281 

Planning deep his subtle schemes 
Which would his revenge requite. 
Ere the sun's first morning beams 
Passed he out into the night. 
Over hill and dale he went, 
Swift and silent as a cat, 
Straight into liis birch-bark tent, 
Where his chiefs in council sat. 



Never did the morning sky 
Brighter seem to look upon, 
More attractive to the eye 
Than now greeted Wollaston. 
And the June sun seemed to cheer 
By its brilliant, streaming rays 
All who came to settle here, 
And to forecast happy days. 



In their sylvan depth's retreat 
Robin, thrush and whip-poor-will 
Caroled out their song so sweet; 
Songs which seemed the air to fill. 
And the babbling, laughing brook 
Gaily danced down to the sea, 
Darting 'twixt each dell and nook, 
Trippling, trilling, euphony. 



Marveling at this wondrous scene, 
Wollaston and Morton rose 
From their bed of grasses green, 
Freshened by the night's repose. 
Ere they started to explore 
These fair sights which did enthrall. 
Breakfast from the vessel's store 
Was then served to one and all. 



282 CRADLED MOONS 

Calling for their pouch of shot, 
Fowling piece and powder horn, 
Wollaston and Morton sought 
To start out while yet 'twas morn. 
Proudly, perclied upon his hand 
Morton took his lanneret. 
Which would fly at his command 
And his hunting trophies get. 



Straight they travelled to the west, 
Where the hills were high and blue, 
Resting on the highest crest. 
Noting everything in view. 
There beneath their eager eyes 
Were two lakes whose liquid deeps 
Back reflected summer skies 
And the rugged mountain steeps. 



To the north of them there lay 
Silver streams and tree-grown plains, 
To the eastward in the bay 
Islets stretched in endless chains. 
Ere they started back to go. 
Hours many had flown by. 
And the sun had sunken low 
In the glowing western sky. 



When they plunged into the wood 
Steps of morning to retrace, 
Lo, behold, before them stood 
An Indian with stolid face, 
Witli his bow slung on his arm, 
Arrow-quiver full to brim. 
Fearful lest he miglit do liarm, 
Pointed thev their suns at him. 



CRADLED MOONS 283 

Taken with surprise aback 

By these words familiar, clear, 

"Welcome, English, Hobomack 

Invites you to share his cheer 

Under yonder shady tree. 

Come and eat my venison. 

Come and fear thou naught from me." 

Thus he spake to WoUaston. 



Glad were these two pioneers 
To accept this offer made. 
And to have their anxious fears 
By these kindly words allayed. 
Underneath a spreading elm 
On the east slope of the hill, 
Overlooking Nature's realm 
Sat all three with right good-will. 



Outdoor life gives appetite, 
Travel makes it doubly keen. 
And the frugal meal in sight 
More than welcome was, I ween. 
So the dish of venison 
Made their gnawing hunger cease. 
And when all of them were done 
Smoked they of the pipe of peace. 



Then the captain and his mate 
Asked their valiant Indian host 
If he would to them relate 
Stories of this rock-bound coast. 
If the many tribes around 
Still to heathen customs clung. 
Where the white men could be found 
Who had taught to him their tongue ? 



284 CRADLED MOONS 

With his h.and he pointed south 

Towards a great, unbeaten track, 

And these words came from the mouth 

Of the mighty Hobomack: 

"Many golden moons ago, 

White men came in ships with wings, 

Came amidst the Winter's snow, 

When the chilly north wind stings. 



To the place called Patuxet 

Came and built their wigwams high, 

On the land which Samoset 

And his tribe did occupy. 

There they taught me how to pray 

To the all-wise Manitou, 

Taught me English words to say. 

Words with which I greeted you. 



And when Manepashmet's squaw, 
Sachem of the Nipmuck race. 
Would on Hobomack make war 
And would drive him from this place. 
Then these men whose skin was fair 
Drove the wicked squaw-chief back. 
Taught her warriors to beware 
Lest they injure Hobomack. 



Thus a debt to them I owe, 
Never shall the English say 
Hobomack was white man's foe, 
Or kind deeds failed to repay." 
Other tilings he told them still. 
Told how he that day had heard 
Aberdecest plot to kill 
Those who had his hate incurred. 



CRADLED MOONS 285 

When the hunter's moon should wane, 
He had planned to fall upon 
And to kill for loot and gain 
All the men with Wollaston. 
Bidding them to hasten back 
To their camp and make defense, 
From the ground rose Hobomack, 
Said farewell and went from hence. 



Frightened by the Indian's tale, 
The two travellers rose in haste 
And took up their morning trail 
Through the brush and swampy waste. 
Evening shadows deeper grew, 
Darkness soon enveloped them. 
And the stars came into view, 
Jewels of Night's diadem. 



Unfamiliar was the land. 
And it is not strange that they 
E'en with woodlore at command 
Could not find the homeward way. 
Skulking wolves trailed at their heels. 
Hooting owls the echoes woke, 
And the distant thunder peals 
Of a coming storm bespoke. 



Wondering how they should proceed, 
Neither dared to act as guide. 
When bold Morton, quick of deed. 
In great exultation cried; 
"Let us tie this silken cord 
On my noble bird of prey. 
And we will to him afford 
Length enough to lead the way. 



286 CRADLED MOONS 

Mayliap he will see the glow 
Of our sentry's beacon light, 
And to us the way will show 
That shall overcome our plight." 
Suiting action to the word, 
^lorton bade the bird to fly, 
And divested of its hood 
Rose the noble falcon high. 



Straight he flew towards where the camp 

On the distant hill did stand. 

Hampered somewhat by the cramp 

Of the cord in Morton's hand. 

Guided in tliis novel way 

Many miles the twain did roam. 

Tired by their long delay 

When they reached their tented home. 



Sleep is Nature's healing balm. 
Soothing, restful, giving all 
Troubled hearts its peaceful calm, 
Freedom from life's bitter thrall. 
Soon these hardy pioneers 
By old Morpheus were enslaved. 
For the nonce forgot their fears 
And the dangers they had braved. 



Days soon lengthened into weeks, 
Weeks to months as quickly grew, 
And where first upon the peaks 
Tents had risen into view, 
Houses stood, unfinished, rude, 
Built of logs and yellow clay, 
And although their style was crude. 
Proof they gave of strength to stay. 



CRADLED MOONS 287 

Circling round the settlement 
Oaken staves and prickly vines 
Acted as an intrenchment 
'Gainst all hostile men's designs. 
Well had Wollaston so schemed 
His defence from savage foe, 
That impregnable it seemed 
Naught was needed more, I trow. 



Every night a sentry stood 
From his vantage point concealed, 
Gazing out into the wood 
Fearful lest each shadow yield 
Proof of Aberdecest's vow, 
Made in cruel, malign hate. 
That he would sometime, somehow, 
The whole band annihilate. 



When the trees stole from the sun 
Brilliant hues of red and gold, 
Ere old Boreas had begun 
To blow down the northern cold. 
Came there to the camp one day 
A savage fierce, with visage sly, 
In his painted war array 
And a cruel, wicked eye. 



Straight to Wollaston he went 

And presented to his hand 

Bow and arrows which were sent 

With a haughty, sharp command 

By the sachem of his tribe 

That they all should leave in haste 

Else he would to them proscribe 

Torture, death and fire's waste. 



288 CRADLED MOONS 

Reaching for his trusty gun 

With a steady, careful eye, 

Trained by usage, Wollaston 

Aimed it at a hawk on high. 

Ere the echoes died away, 

And the smoke had cleared from sight, 

At their feet before them lay 

The bird bereft of life and might. 



"So it shall be to your chief 
If he comes on us to war, 
He shall likewise come to grief, 
Go and tell liim what you saw." 
Thus spake Wollaston aloud 
To the haughty Indian brave. 
Who went back with spirit cowed, 
Sadder, yet a wiser knave. 



Glad was Aberdecest then 
When he heard his courier's word 
To seek favor with these men 
Who could shoot a winged bird, 
And lie sent them for their use 
Skins of beaver and of bear. 
Praying that he might make truce 
With the men whose skins were fair. 



Neither were the settlers loath 
With the Indians to make peace. 
Well they knew 'twas best for both 
That ill feeling now should cease. 
So they traded back and forth 
Beads for skins and knives for furs, 
And for other things of worth 
Gave they of their ample stores. 



CRADLED MOONS 289 

Winter now came on apace, 
And the gray clouds floated low, 
Biting winds cut on man's face, 
And the air was filled witli snow. 
Rather than the cold winds bear 
Of New England's winter time, 
Wollaston would fain repair 
To Virginia's sunny clime. 



Gathering his men around, 
The bold leader from them chose 
Half a score, all strong and sound. 
And he did to them propose 
That they sail to Raleigh's land 
Where the winter air was mild. 
Where man must not needs withstand 
Howling winds and storms so wild. 



Then to Morton he resigned 
The command of all the rest 
Who were left by him behind 
Mostly at their own behest. 
Weighing anchor one bright day 
With a smooth, unruffled sea, 
From Mount Wollaston away 
Sailed he on the "Charity." 



From that day to this we've heard 
Little of that roving soul. 
Though Dame Rumor adds her word 
To the page of his life's scroll. 
She has said he wooed and won 
A maiden fair of Indian kind. 
Thus w^'ll leave brave Wollaston 
And dismiss him from our mind. 



290 CRADLED MOONS 

Winter months flew quickly by, 
Glad were Morton and his men 
When the sun rose in the sky 
And the spring time came again. 
For to those then far away 
From their English homes so fair 
Every dark and cheerless day 
Seemed to fill them with despair. 



Few indeed can wear a frown 
When Dame Nature, all serene, 
Dresses in her brightest gown. 
Heavenly blue and brilliant green. 
And it is not strange if all 
In the camp should celebrate 
Spring's return witli festival 
And with joy exuberate. 



When the merry month of May 
Comes again with smiling skies 
And each bright and sunny day 
Drives away all frowns and sighs, 
Then the universe seems glad. 
E'en the stars blink out their joy, 
And the old Earth, now green-clad 
Winter's gloom seems to destroy. 



So when spring time came once more. 
Dreary winter to expel, 
From the hill and from the shore 
From each mountain glade and dell, 
'Tis not strange that Morton should 
In his heart to joy give birth. 
And his men in joyful mood , 

Homage pay to Mother Earth. 



CRADLED MOONS 291 

As the May-day now drew near, 
Morton planned his joy to show, 
By the custom to him dear 
Of a May-pole all aglow. 
Decked with garlands wet with dew, 
Strmig with ribbons, gaudy, gay. 
Each of brightest dye and hue, 
Fitting honors to the day. 



So he climbed the lofty hill. 
With his men he built a shrine. 
And they cut with woodsman's skill 
For their pole a lofty pine. 
Eighty feet they raised its head. 
And its top they did equip 
With a pair of antlers spread 
Full five feet from tip to tip. 



When the holiday came round. 
Marched they all with noise of drum 
To the summit of the mound. 
Bearing flagons full of rum. 
Savages who flocked to see 
White men's revels lent a hand 
In this May-day's jollity 
Strange, indeed, to this new land. 



After fashion of the time 
Morton wrote a INIay-pole ode 
And made fun in caustic rhyme 
Of each current episode. 
This he fixed upon the tree 
For his men to read at will, 
Then began the revelry 
On the summit of the hill. 



292 CRADLED MOONS 

And from Bradford's strict account 
We have learned that Morton named 
Where the pole stood "Merrymount." 
Such to this day it is famed. 
And the name, was chosen wpll, 
For the revels 'neath the trees 
Would defy one to excel, 
Ne'er was seen such games as these. 



Dancing madly and with vim 
Rivaling Bacchus in his mood 
Some with naked breast and limb 
In a manner savage, lewd. 
Drunken with their great excess, 
Singing loud a roundelay. 
In bold, reckless wantonness 
Thus they spent the livelong day. 



'Mongst the Indians who had seen 
Morton's wild symposiac, 
And the revels on the green 
Was the mighty Hobomack. 
Often had he visited 
Morton and his liardy band. 
And in hunting spirited, 
He had led them o'er the land. 



But the revels lie now viewed 

Shocked his sense of moral right. 

With which he became imbued 

By Myles Standish, stern, upright. 

So he hurried to the town 

Where the Pilgrims lived in peace. 

And to Standish he made known 

Things which did him much displease. 



CRADLED MOONS 293 

Boundless was the Pilgrim's rage, 
When they heard of each misdeed 
In which Morton did engage, 
And they very soon agreed 
That there was not room for two 
Types of men so different 
In this virgin land so new 
Where they made their settlement. 



So they then and there declared 
They would end this wicked scene, 
And they quietly prepared 
Morton's rule to contravene. 
Placing Standish at their head 
(Ne'er was there a braver soul), 
To the north they quickly sped, 
Where loomed high the gay May-pole. 



In the midst of sport profane, 
They surprised the Bachanals, 
And they did all them enchain 
As a band of criminals. 
Then they cut the May-pole down, 
Burned it in their righteous wrath, 
And marched back to Plymouth town 
O'er the rough and wooded path. 



Then they sent bold Morton home 
And his men to England's shore, 
And forbade them e'er to roam 
In this place for evermore. 
Thus an end comes to my rhyme 
Of the settlement begun, 
But until the end of time 
Lives the name of Wollaston. 



294 CRADLED MOONS 

THE PEOPLE I MEET ON THE TRAIN 

I meet them each morning, I meet them eacli nighty 
Some faces are scowling, some faces are bright, 
Some faces are beaming with love and delight, 

And some look on me with disdain ; 
Some travel in pairs and some go alone, 
I'm acquainted with few, to most I'm unknown, 
And all are intent on tlie tlioughts of their own, 

The people I meet on the train. 

Some hold up their papers and shut out the view. 
Some usurp seating space intended for two. 
Some never say "If you please" or "Thank you," 

And some have a grouch which is plain; 
But some I have seen are most courteous and kind, 
They're willing to share all the comforts they find, 
It's a pleasure to travel with some I've in mind. 

The people I meet on the train. 

Some think the conductor has nothing on hand 
But to ride back and forth and admire the land. 
And the truth of it is they can not understand 

That such work has danger and pain ; 
But some that I see are willing to give 
The conductor a chance to honestly live. 
And are never the least bit inquisitive, 

The people I meet on the train. 



I wonder if you have been one of the throng 

I've written about in tliis trivial song, 

I wonder to wliich of these groups you belong. 

And in which you care to remain ; ; 
Do you wear every morning a frown or a smile? 
Is your ride back and forth a bore or worth while? 
Now wliich of these classes is known as your style? 

The people I meet on the train. 



CRADLED MOONS 295 



ST. LUKE XXIV 



And now upon tlie first morn of the week 
As the faint blush of dawn bespake the day, 
They came in silence to the tomb to seek 
The body of the Christ which hidden lay. 
They bore within their palms rich oil and spice, 
A final tribute to their Lord who died, 
'Twas all that they could do, and must suffice 
To prove their love for Him, the crucified. 



The stone which sealed the sepulchre so tight 
Against all friends or foes was rolled away, 
And by that yawning tomb'^ uncertain light 
They entered in and found not mortal clay. 
And tliey were much perplexed and cried aloud. 
When lo ! behold ! appeared unto them there 
Two men with garments shining like a cloud 
When brilliant with the sunset's colors rare. 



And out of fear they bowed down to the earth. 

Mortality is ill-prepared to look 

Upon the grandeur of Celestial birth, 

The finite ne'er the Infinite can brook. 

And in their fear they listed to a voice 

Which said, "Why seek ye living 'mongst the dead? 

He is not here, oil, troubled hearts, rejoice. 

But risen is and from earth's bounds is fled. 



296 CRADLED MOONS 

For know you not the words He spoke to you 

When preaching by the Galileean Lake, 

The Son of Man must die and life renew 

Again, to prove God's love for mankind's sake." 

And when they heard these words they called to mind 

The things which Christ Himself had oft foretold. 

Though none His meaning e'er before opined. 

They knew the truth and, knowing it, grew bold. 



And then again with new light in their eyes 

They journeyed to the place from whence they came. 

And told the rest of them which did comprise 

The chosen lot to teach the Master's Name. 

And it was Mary Magdalene who spake 

And said, "Come, see," for some believed her not. 

And questioned how the dead interred could wake 

Or rise to glory from tliat guarded spot. 



Tlien Peter rose and ran with all his might 
Unto the sepulchre where Christ had lain, 
And stooping down beheld the linen wliite 
Laid by itself and naught did it contain. 
And wondering within liis soul he passed 
From out the tomb into the light of day, 
Nor doubted more that what his Lord forecast 
Had been fulfilled in God's own holy way. 



Now two of them that way went to the town 

Whicli was Emmaus called, and lay about 

Full tlireescore furlongs from the hills that crown 

Jerusalem, the pride of Jews devout. 

And as they spake together on the road, 

Behold the Christ Himself drew near and walked 

Beside tliem to the place of their abode. 

And listed to the things of whicli tliey talked. 



CRADLED MOONS 297 

But neitlier knew Him, for their eyes were blind 
To aught but doubts within each troubled heart, 
And Jesus said, "What be the things ye find 
To talk about, and whence those tears which start 
From out thine eyes?" And one of them whose name 
Was known as Cleopas replied and said, 
"Art thou a stranger and know not the fame 
Of things whicli o'er Jerusalem hath spread?" 



And He said unto them, "What things be these?" 
And answering again they said to Him, 
"Of Jesus Whom the Scribes and Pharisees 
Condemned to death upon the Cross so grim, 
Who was a mighty prophet in both deed 
And word before our God and fellow-men. 
And how we trusted that Himself would lead 
Tlie tribes of Israel for us again. 



And it lias been three days since this befell. 
Since He was laid beneath the ponderous stone, 
And lo, what happened but to-day we tell 
As it to us by some hath been made known. 
Yea, certain women of our company 
Who journeyed early to the sepulchre 
And found His body not, hut yet did see 
Two angels there with whom they did confer. 



And of a truth the angels said that He 
Was now alive and risen from the grave, 
And that these things were all ordained to be 
By God Himself, Who sent His Son to save. 
And certain men who were with us to-day 
Went to the sepulchre and found it so. 
Just as we all had heard the women say. 
Nor did thev see the Master there below." 



298 CRADLED MOONS 

Tlien said He unto them, "O slow of heart 
And fools, to read the prophets and believe 
Yet cannot see that Christ must do His part 
And suffer much, His glory to achieve." 
And then He read to them the scriptural law 
From Moses and the other prophets, too. 
Concerning things of which they'd heard and saw 
About Himself and proved the prophets true. 



And as they drew nigh to the little town, 

He made as though He would have gone away. 

But they constrained Him, saying, "Night comes down. 

Abide with us, for far is spent the day." 

And as He sat at meat with them He took 

A loaf of bread and blessed it, brake and gavf 

To each of them, and blindness them forsook. 

They knew Him, risen from the lonely grave. 



And lo, behold ! as they both looked again 

He left tliem there and vanished from their sight. 

And they amazed said to each other then, 

"Did not our hearts witliin us burn with light 

While He re-oped the scriptures on our way 

And talked with us, while we knew not His Name? 

Then rising up in the same -hour they 

In haste retraced their steps from whence they came. 



And there they saw disciples gathered round 
And said to them, "The Lord has risen indeed, 
P'or even now He hath appeared unbound 
And shown Himself to Simon loose and freed." 
In haste they told the rest how Christ made known 
Himself when at the table breaking bread. 
And how He left them standing there alone 
In doubt and fear, not knowing where He sped. 



CRADLED MOONS 299 

And as tiiey spoke, behold ! with them there stood 

\\'ithin their midst tlie Lord Himself, Who said, 

"Peace be to you," but they in troubled mood 

Affrighted were, and would in fear have fled, 

But He said unto them, "Oh, why are ye 

So troubled in your hearts? Behold my hands 

And see My feet, and know that what I be 

Is "flesh and bones which here before you stands.'" 



And then He showed them both His hands and feet, 
And they believed in joy, yet wondered much, 
When lo. He said, "Have ye withal to eat, 
For flesh and bone doth oft require sucli?" 
Thev handed Him a piece of broiled flsh 
And honeycomb wlierewith to stay His fast, 
And He did eat before them of each dish. 
And spake these words to them upon the past: 



"Wliile I was yet with you these things must be 

Which written were by prophets in the law 

From Moses down, and all concerned Me 

The things of which you've listed to and saw." 

Then opened He their understanding so 

They might the scri])ture comprehend indeed, 

And said to them, "It written is, you know. 

That Clirist should die and from the grave be freed. 



And that Fie should ascend unto His heavenly throne 

On the third day from that on which He died," 

And rising thus, by this same act atone 

For mankind's sins, and peace with God provide, 

And that remission of all sins be told 

Unto the multitude if it repent. 

And to all nations they should then unfold 

The truths of which each was recipient. 



800 CRADLED MOONS 

And they should start from out Jerusalem 

And preach His Name and things they witnessed there, 

Nor ever cease." And then He said to them, 

"Behold I send and herewitli now declare 

The promise of My Father upon you, 

And bid ye tarry in the city till 

The power from high shall all your hearts imbue, 

And God's pure love shall your whole being fill." • 



And then He led them out to Bethany, 
And lifted up His hands and blessed them all. 
And while He blessed them, ere a one could see, 
He left them there, and answered Heaven's call. 
And they returned and worshipped in great joy. 
And daily in the temple raised their voice. 
In love and praise their song they did employ, 
With grateful hearts they prayed and did rejoice. 

Amen. 



A DROP OF INK 

"A drop of ink makes millions think," 
But when the ink is steeped in gall. 
And what it writes besmirches all. 
Then better for this world of woe 
That this small drop of ink should flow 
Into the deep and dark blue sea 
And dissipate its energy. 



